The Real Deal
by Gallivant
Summary: A psychological thriller sequel to Red Eye which follows Lisa's emotional journey after that fateful flight. Lisa wants to learn the truth behind what happened to her, and the truth about Jackson. Her quest leads to some shocking discoveries. LisaJackson.
1. Inklings

**Author's Note:** The aim of this opening chapter is to introduce Lisa's mental state with regard to Jackson and the dreaded events of the Dallas – Miami Red Eye flight, so there is some exposition I'm afraid, more perhaps than I would have liked. But it hopefully serves as a proper foundation for the rest of the story to come. This chapter is also pretty long – which might well mean the whole story ends up longer than I first thought actually – so apologies in advance. I hope you bear with it.

Apologies too if there are elements of this story which come across as 'unoriginal'. Although this is not a shipping fanfic _per se_, there is certainly a 'relationship' of sorts which gradually emerges between Jackson and Lisa. It is the ramifications of that relationship which interest me, most particularly with regard to what we learn about the background to Jackson's 'career', hopefully introducing a thriller element to the story.

I expect the story to be told almost entirely from Lisa's POV. This is predominantly her story, her emotional journey – although obviously this might change as the story progresses. I hope you enjoy!

**THE REAL DEAL**

**CHAPTER ONE – Inklings**

A shaft of cool morning sunshine was streaming through a gap in the curtains, piercing the grey darkness. From the warm confines of her bed, Lisa Reisert watched, as luminous particles of dust kept swirling and spinning within the ray of light, a constant, endless chase, which was soon to be swamped by the bright light which flooded the room, once Lisa had swung open the curtains – a signal that her day was to begin.

At first, this morning felt no different to any other. Lisa was tired and cramped from sleeplessness, reluctant to drag herself from bed, to embrace the day.

But just moments after waking, a strange and frightening recollection chilled through her – one she hoped would dissipate as the warmth and bustle of everyday life took over.

Last night had seemed like any other night she endured these days.

She had fallen into bed, exhausted from a long day's hectic work as manager of the Lux Atlantic, one of Miami's most prestigious hotels. She had slept fitfully for a few hours, waking just after 3.00am. She had grimaced in annoyance at the blinking red digital display on her radio/alarm clock.

It was always the same.

Some nights she had to get up, walk around the house, watch some TV, have something to eat. Anything to force out the welter of dark and dangerous thoughts which crowded into her mind. Other times, she froze, succumbed to her fear, reliving over and over, in compulsively vivid detail, the horror that had been her life just six months ago.

Lisa had been flying home to Miami from her grandmother's funeral in Texas. At the airport, she had met a man, a man who had turned her life upside down in the cruellest possible fashion. A man who, at first, seemed charming, attractive, a man with whom she had flirted, enjoying his company. These facts she acknowledged, albeit grudgingly.

But this man, Jackson Rippner as he called himself, was in reality a 'manager', hired to organise high profile assassinations, and his target in this instance was Keefe, the deputy director of Homeland Security, and his family, who happened to be staying at Lisa's hotel in Miami. Rippner's sole aim aboard the Dallas to Miami Red Eye, was to force an unsuspecting Lisa to call her hotel and authorise a change of suite for Keefe - a suite targeted by a lethal guided missile. And if she refused to comply, Rippner coldly warned, her father would be murdered.

Florida's S.B.I , the F.B.I., Keefe's own department, everyone had praised Lisa for her quick thinking, her tenacity, in double-crossing Rippner, ensuring Keefe's escape – and also for her fearless self-defence when Rippner, blood boiling with angry revenge and wounded pride, then attacked herself and her father at her father's home in Miami. Rippner had been injured in the process – eventually shot by Lisa's father.

But Rippner hadn't died.

Neither had he been charged for conspiring to murder Keefe and his family, contrary to all the evidence Lisa had scrupulously submitted to the prosecution. This failure to charge Rippner appeared to be an incomprehensible and wholly confusing U-turn from the police authorities.

And in a further disturbing development, a number of key witnesses from the Dallas to Miami Red Eye flight, had decided to change their testimony, or even forgo testifying at all.

It was as though the assassination attempt had never happened.

There had, of course, been some charges levelled at Rippner, based on Lisa and Joe Reisert's complaints that he had forcefully entered their home and attacked them, prompting their acts of self-defence. But at the preliminary hearing, Lisa had become awkwardly aware that there were a number of questions being raised, inferring that her and her father's behaviour, had itself bordered on the criminal.

This was disconcerting to say the least.

And, more worrying still, soon after, doubts were raised that there had ever been a man called Jackson Rippner. The 'intruder' to the Reisert home was instead publicly identified as a Mr John Doyle from Connecticut – supposedly in Miami on business – who claimed to be present at the Reisert home, only because he had witnessed Lisa's ramming a man (as yet unidentified, although Lisa knew him to be a hired killer) with an SUV, just moments earlier. Doyle claimed he was offering assistance, in what he had presumed was a terrible accident.

Lisa was humiliated by a steady stream of inferences, suggesting that Jackson Rippner might never even have existed. After all. Just what kind of name was JACKSON RIPPNER? Who in their right minds would call a kid that? It didn't add up. Lisa argued that it was clearly an alias. This man was a hard-boiled assassin. A cold-blooded killer.

But she could feel her case, her cause, gradually slipping away.

And Lisa had finally caved into despair when all media coverage was unexpectedly halted and a number of dark-suited, slick-tongued lawyers were suddenly drafted in for Rippner/Doyle's defence.

Strangely, no one, not even Rippner, dared bring charges against Lisa and her father on Rippner/Doyle's behalf. And the prosecution failed to charge Lisa in connection to the death of the unidentified man she had mowed down, outside her father's house. This was all the more peculiar, because by now, the rapidly changing tone of events had led Lisa to dread that she, the victim in this scenario, was to be painted a criminal instead.

As for Jackson Rippner himself, Lisa never once laid eyes on him throughout these proceedings. Straight after the shooting, Rippner had been transferred to an out-of-state infirmary. Lisa was never informed where.

She soon learnt that Rippner had been discharged. But still, he never made an appearance at the court hearing, which was promptly shut down with what seemed to Lisa to be undue haste.

In some respects Lisa was relieved that she didn't have to face Rippner. She dreaded the thought of seeing him again – his chill, blue eyes, his insolent gaze.

But she was terrifyingly aware that this had been a bewildering miscarriage of justice. She wondered who Jackson Rippner really was. Who did he work for? And was she still in danger?

After all, Rippner was still out there, somewhere. And despite the constant assurances from her father, and her therapist, and the handful of police officers who had sympathised with her position, that Rippner would be a fool to return – to 'steal her' as he himself had once put it – she could not stem the gut-churning fears which gripped her, robbing her of any peace of mind, depriving her of sleep.

'Bad things happen to good people' Rippner had told her in a calm, laconic tone.

But why her? Why Lisa Reisert? Why was she to be haunted by her past? These spectres of cruelty – Rippner himself and an unknown, uncaptured rapist who had tormented her in a car-lot two years previous – they were both still out there. Watching. Waiting. Biding their time.

These thoughts continued to torture Lisa, eating away at her through these long nights, these vigils of fear, compounded by the bitter knowledge that in the event of an attack, she was defenceless.

It was so unfair.

Last night had been no different it seemed. Darkness riddled with paranoid fears. She had lain frozen, bathed in cold sweat, clutching her comforter close to her body, her heart beating frantically inside her chest. She had become, once again, a small child, hiding under the bedclothes, fearful of the boogieman coming to take her away – to 'steal her'.

And at times, in the deep, dark silence of the night – last night - she had fancied she could hear his breathing, soft yet urgent, slightly rasped, close by her.

It was as though she could feel his eyes, cold cerulean blue, boring into her. Watching. Waiting.

She hoped, of course, it was fanciful fear, getting the better of her. But it had felt so darned real, so imminent. So close.

By the time that first ray of sunlight had strayed into her bedroom, she was drained, exhausted and desperate.

XXXXXXXXXX

'You look terrible,' Dana, one of the receptionists at the Lux Atlantic hotel mumbled in sympathetic greeting to Lisa as she arrived for work an hour later. 'Had a bad night?'

'Worse than ever,' Lisa mumbled, filing quickly through the pile of mail Dana had handed her. 'Any overnight disasters I should know about?' she added casually.

Dana shrugged. 'One of those delightfully uneventful nights you'll be glad to know.'

'Good,' Lisa breathed, heading into her office with the mail. She called back to Dana. 'Could someone grab me a _latte_?'

XXXXXXXXXX

Safely ensconced in her office, Lisa sunk heavily onto a deep black leather sofa, wondering how she was going to cope with the long day ahead of her. She was panting slightly, and her chest felt strained. She rubbed her throat, gulping for air.

She soon recognised these symptoms as the precursor to a panic attack. Her therapist Miriam had told her repeatedly to think nice, clear thoughts, take deep breaths, even cup her hands over her face, ensuring she had plentiful oxygen.

Gradually the rising sense of hot panic which was welling up inside of her subsided. She continued to breathe deeply, eyes tightly closed, ignoring the brash clamour of the telephone on her desk, which demanded her attention.

The ringing persisted.

Lisa saw a bright red light on top of the phone was illuminated, indicating this was in-house. She sighed heavily. It was probably a problem with housekeeping or a troublesome guest. Still. It was her job to deal with it.

She grabbed the phone in some irritation.

'This is Lisa. How can I help you?' she said in brisk, clipped tones.

There was silence.

'Hello?'

But there was still no reply.

'Hello?' she repeated, barely able to suppress her annoyance. Lisa momentarily checked the receiver, tapping it, just in case it was a dodgy connection. She was about to disconnect and call Maintenance, when she heard it.

Soft, light breathing. Not quite the urgent intensity of last night's fears, but eerily present, eerily there, all the same.

'Hello,' she repeated, a little more tentatively, quizzically, trying to dampen the sudden surge of alarm which prickled through her body.

'Is – is someone there?' she faltered.

But there was no reply. Just the steady rhythmical cadence of soft, light breathes. Except ... except, if she listened carefully, above the pounding of her own heart, there was a slight shushing wheeze, a faint underlying trace of huskiness, barely discernible, but certainly there.

Lisa gasped, a cold shiver of recognition washing over her.

She slammed the phone down onto her desk, jumping back and away from it, as if it was alive and dangerous. As if the breathing, HIS breathing, for somehow she had no doubt who had called, could magically materialise before her, invade her - Jackson Rippner's sinewy self, bristling with malice, with menace, with dangerous intent, taking physical form.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa ran into reception. Dana noted her alarm, but was occupied with a customer. She subtly raised her eyebrows in reassurance. Lisa smiled weakly.

Luckily Eric, her long-serving head of security, was exiting the elevator and was lumbering across the lobby towards her, a broad grin lighting up his face.

'Great news Lisa!' he chortled. 'My little Suzette's done it! It's another little grand-daughter for me and Cherry!'

Lisa's features brightened at his news, even though her insides were still quivering with sickly dread.

'That's wonderful, Eric. Really, truly wonderful. That … that makes three grandkids in all now, doesn't it?'

Eric was normally better known for her his solemn morosity – a man who took his job very, very seriously. Lisa marvelled at the sunny change in his demeanour.

Eric nodded. 'Three little darlings … and all girls too!'

'Well,' said Lisa chirpily. 'If – if you want to take an extended lunch today Eric, go visit them … it's really no problem.'

Eric's eyes widened. 'That's real kind of you Miss Lisa. And why don't you drop by sometime yourself? Suzette's always asking after you.'

'I'll do just that. I promise.'

Lisa shuffled awkwardly, ashamed to undermine Eric's buoyant mood.

'One thing Eric – before you go.'

'Sure. Fire away.'

'I – I just received an odd sort of call – a crank call I think.'

Eric's thickly seamed forehead furrowed in concern. Since the missile attack on Keefe's suite six months ago, Eric had become ever more vigilant, even perhaps a little obsessive, about anything he deemed to be a potential security breach.

He had also developed a strongly protective streak towards Lisa, who he felt had been treated most unfairly by the Miami Police department – something which had shocked him to the core, seeing as he was an ex-cop himself, with, in general, a strong allegiance to his old work buddies.

'I see. Exactly what KIND of call? Was it a threat?'

Lisa chilled at the thought of it. The soft, sighing breathes. Nothing else. Nothing one could truly construe as a threat _per se_ – but sinister none the less.

'No … not really.' Lisa's eyes darted frantically around the lobby. Just in case.

'You know Eric. I'd feel better discussing this in my office. It'll only take a moment.'

XXXXXXXXXX

'It's probably nothing to worry about. But I got this call just a few minutes ago … just someone breathing,' said Lisa, twisting her hands in anguish as she spoke.

'HEAVY breathing?' Eric asked gruffly, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'No. Just … breathing.'

Eric stuck his bottom lip out thoughtfully. 'Might it have been a misdial Miss Lisa? Some folks get a bit stuck for words.'

'No. No Eric.' Lisa pushed her auburn hair which had flounced onto her face, away from her forehead, which was a little warm and clammy. Again, she was fighting panic. She knew it.

'It was HIM,' she blurted. 'I know it was. And he's here. At the hotel.'

Eric's brow creased in concern. He reached out a steadying hand to Lisa. She looked at him directly, directly into his kind, age-worn eyes. And she saw his sad, fond scepticism.

'Check the internal numbers,' she urged. 'You'll see that someone called my office just, just ten minutes ago. Probably less.'

'But normally an in-house call can be identified by its origin Miss Lisa. On caller display. Was it a room number, housekeeping?'

'None of those. Just INTERNAL.' Now that she was saying this out loud she realised how ridiculous this might sound to others.

Eric shook his head slowly. 'You know Miss Lisa. I can't see how that's possible. But I can assure you I'll get the boys to sift through your calls. See if anything's out of the ordinary.'

Lisa smiled weakly, then said in desperation. 'Thanks Eric. But can it be now? This instant? Because I, I think he might still be here, if, if it's who I think it is, and …'.

Eric sighed. 'Right away Miss Lisa. As you say.'

He stepped out of the office, almost colliding with Lisa's assistant manager Cynthia, who was clearly coming to see Lisa, armed with a sheaf of papers in one hand and a _latte_ for Lisa in the other.

'Hey Lisa,' she said merrily.

Lisa momentarily cheered at the sight of her friend's fresh, young face and wide-mouthed, exuberant smile, even though her heart was still beating hard, and her mind was racing.

'OK, OK, so I've got stacks of nasty paperwork for you to get through, but I've got some really cool news too,' Cynthia said breezily, allowing the papers to slide out of her arms and onto Lisa's desk. Her tone faltered in response to Lisa's stricken expression.

'Are you alright?'

Cynthia's genuinely kind and caring tones always had a nasty habit of undoing her.

Lisa flopped onto the sofa, her hands resting neatly on the knees of her smartly tailored black pants. She gulped back a ghastly urge to cry, to scream.

Cynthia carefully placed the _latte_ on Lisa's desk and sat next to her. Her hand rested on Lisa's.

'A bad day, huh?'

Lisa nodded mutely, struggling to swallow, afraid that the hot tears welling up in her eyes might spill over.

'I'm terrified,' she gasped quietly. 'I can't help myself. I just got a call. A strange call. And I'm pretty darned sure it was HIM.'

Cynthia's hand clutched Lisa's anxiously.

'You sure about this?'

Lisa looked at Cynthia. Her eyes clear and soulful. 'I think so.'

Cynthia whistled softly through her teeth, her eyes darting from side to side.

'Geez Lisa. What did he say?'

'Say? Oh. Nothing. He … he just breathed. He was just … there.' She broke into wild laughter. 'Or rather, he was HERE. So close. So very close. He still might be.'

Cynthia was looking very worried.

'What makes you say that?'

'Because it was an in-house call.'

Cynthia's face puckered a little. 'And … you know, for certain, it was Jackson.'

Lisa cringed a little at the sound of his name.

'I've no doubt.'

'Even though he didn't speak to you.'

'Like I said. I heard him breathing.'

'And … HIS breathing sounds so very different to any other person's, right?'

'Look Cynthia. I know it was him. Eric's gone to check the phone log.'

Cynthia put a reassuring arm around Lisa's shoulders and drew her close.

'Lisa. Lisa. You know how this sounds, don't you.'

'Yes. Yes. Of course I do,' Lisa replied in irritated tones. 'I'm not dumb, you know.'

'Is it possible you're just a little tired and kind of upset, and … maybe, maybe your mind's playing tricks on you?'

'He's out there Cynthia. He's haunting me.'

'I know, I know,' Cynthia said in placatory tones.

Lisa pulled away and stood up, staring fixedly at her friend who remained seated on the sofa. 'You do believe me, don't you? You're not like all those other bastards who figure that Jackson Rippner was some kind of figment of my imagination?'

Cynthia looked incredulous. 'How could you think such a thing? I've never doubted you for a minute.' She paused, then added hesitantly. 'No-one - no-one who matters - has ever really doubted that this guy … this JACKSON … broke into your Dad's house, and, and, he likely deserved what was coming to him too.'

Lisa looked exasperated. 'Except there is no Jackson Rippner, apparently.' The tears which had threatened to spill over, now fell. 'Just this John Doyle character. Who the police seem to believe over me and Dad.'

'Who's jumped state.'

'Who was REMOVED from the State of Florida … don't forget that,' Lisa interjected menacingly. 'And I would dearly love to know by whom.'

Cynthia looked awkward, even fearful, at what she was about to say next.

'Look Lisa. I sincerely do believe you that this guy was some kind of terrorist or something … I got your call, remember? But surely you can see that there is no real evidence connecting the man you met on the plane and this, this intruder? The police have been over and over this stuff already.'

'So you DON'T believe me.'

'No, I do. I do,' Cynthia said firmly. A look of bitter resignation swept across her face. She had had this same conversation over and over. 'Maybe you should go home, get some rest. Take the day off. You look beat.'

Lisa smiled wanly. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, gazed about the room.

'Maybe I should,' she muttered. 'Even though it's the Diamond Club Ladies Annual Dinner this evening. And you know how very, very particular Mrs Moncrieff is about getting everything just so!'

Cynthia grinned, leaping to her feet. 'Well I can handle Mrs Moncrieff, and her precious ladies. Don't worry about a thing. Leave it all to me.'

Cynthia headed for the door, but before heading out, she paused, briefly turning back to Lisa.

'You still seeing that shrink Lisa?'

Lisa laughed. 'OK. So you DO think I've lost it!'

Cynthia was about to leave when Lisa remembered.

'Cynthia!' she called. Cynthia swung round. 'What was the good news?'

Cynthia's face lit up. 'Bradley's asked me to marry him. And … I said yes!'

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa settled herself onto the well-worn faded chintz couch in Dr Miriam Greenbaum's office. Miriam was a short, dumpy woman, in her late fifties, with a kindly manner and warm, gentle eyes, now gazing thoughtfully at her anguished young patient.

'It's so kind of you Miriam to see me at such short notice,' Lisa said, picking nervously at her fingernails.

'Not at all,' smiled Miriam. 'To tell the truth, I was very concerned when you called this morning.'

Lisa smiled in return, a close approximation of her confident, beaming smile. Her 'people pleasing' face.

Miriam didn't seem convinced. She eyed Lisa thoughtfully.

'So you think he called you,' she said. 'Is this the first time?'

Lisa pondered for a moment. 'I believe so. Yes.'

'And you're SURE it was him?'

'I can't know for sure, of course, but … my instincts tell me,' Lisa replied.

'Well dear, if this is the case, shouldn't you be informing the police department?'

Miriam's words rang out as a challenge, Lisa thought. _She doesn't believe me_. _She doesn't believe me_. _She thinks I'm a kook._

'I … I'm not sure … I don't think they'll take me seriously.'

'Why ever not? This won't be the first time you have claimed he is following you.'

'Stalking, more like,' Lisa muttered venomously, failing to conceal the rising impatience in her voice.

Miriam smiled serenely. Behind her was a large window, opening out onto a swathe of freshly mown green lawn, wetly gleaming in the bright sunshine, as a sprinkler constantly swooshed, round and round, drenching the grass.

'And you say he was in your house. Last night.'

'I said he MAY have been. I don't actually know. It – it just felt like he was.'

Lisa could feel the mild throb of a headache dinning at her temples.

'So, it wasn't necessarily a physical manifestation of Mr Rippner. More, perhaps, your fears. Getting the better of you,' Miriam said in soft, soothing tones.

Lisa felt tears of frustration pricking her eyelids. Twice in one day was not good, she thought. Not good at all. She took a deep breath. Miriam leant forward from the beige leather armchair she was sitting in, opposite Lisa, and gently stroked Lisa's hand.

'That's it dear. Let it out. Let it out.'

Instead Lisa sniffed back the tears, pulled her hand away, and sat, straight-backed. She forced a smile.

'I hope you don't think I'm having a psychotic episode,' she laughed mirthlessly.

Miriam smiled. 'Hardly psychotic! … Neurotic maybe.'

Lisa grimaced.

Miriam continued. 'No Lisa. What is happening to you is perfectly understandable. What you have gone through – and I mean EVERYTHING, not just Rippner – would have undone most people. You, however, have responded admirably. A little tiny bit of unravelling now and then is allowed I should think.' She smiled indulgently.

Lisa pulled a face. 'You say that.'

'You don't have to be Superwoman,' Miriam said tartly, almost as a reprimand.

Lisa gave a twisted smile. Oh, but I do, she thought wryly.

They fell into silence, punctuated only by the rhythmic swishing of the sprinkler beyond the window.

Miriam pursed her lips tightly, as if in deep concentration. Then, out of the blue.

'Lisa, do you think you might actually WANT to see him again?'

A flicker of panic, almost excitement, shuddered through Lisa, but she suppressed it, fixing a smile of disbelief, of revulsion, on her face.

'This man tried to kill me. He attacked my father. Why would I want to see him? I fear and hate him.'

Miriam said nothing in return, simply keeping her eyes trained on Lisa's face.

'You mean …. Do I want to exact my revenge?' Lisa said, rolling her eyes dramatically. 'Because … because I don't. Not now. I DID. But. That's passed. It's over.'

Miriam continued to gaze at Lisa.

Lisa looked down. 'Like I said. I just fear him, that's all,' she said in a small voice.

'Sometimes Lisa,' Miriam said. 'We have to face our darkest fears. Because they are part of us. Jackson Rippner is your nemesis. You thought you had faced him down. But he got away. So he has come to represent the unbidden murky depths of your ID, if you will. Your psyche.'

Lisa looked bewildered.

Miriam smiled, adding empatically. 'Your dark side.'

Lisa now listened closely.

'And perhaps, there is a part of you Lisa – as with anybody – which is secretly drawn to that dark side. The thrill of it all. The horror. The power. Perhaps you truly want him to appear, as if by magic, so that you can try to understand him. Understand yourself.'

'No,' Lisa said steadily. 'It's not like that. Not like that at all.' Her eyes momentarily clouded. 'I just want to ask him one simple question.'

'And what's that my dear?'

Lisa screwed up her face in sudden anger. 'Why me? Why did he have to choose me? What did I ever do to him? And … and just who is he? And why does he make me feel like this? Why is he always here? Always present? Always with me?'

Miriam nodded sagely. 'I thought you said ONE simple question my dear.' She patted Lisa's hand affectionately. Lisa was now sobbing hard.

'That's it Lisa. Let it out. Let it out.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Maybe Miriam was right, Lisa thought, as she drove home to her small house in the suburbs. Maybe there was something in her that wanted to meet Jackson Rippner again. So much so, she was perhaps developing these wild fantasies. Imagining him watching her, calling her.

But Lisa didn't quite buy that either. She'd always been a level-headed girl. Not inclined to flights of fancy. Sure, she felt kind of rudderless, adrift at times. Like life had no meaning … or at least one she could get a handle on. But she moved through her life, her days, with gritted determination to somehow keep in control, to get by. Come what may.

Miriam was right of course. Other people had experienced far less than she had, and had keeled over with post-traumatic stress syndrome, or whatever it was they called emotional breakdown these days. Lisa didn't despise these people. In some ways she admired them – admired their courage to just cave into their feelings, their fears, to 'let it out'. But she couldn't do that. She couldn't simply succumb. She was made differently.

She wanted to confront these feelings, her primeval ID, or whatever it was Miriam had called it, head on.

But of course that meant confronting Jackson Rippner. She knew she couldn't find him herself. Bitter experience had taught her that this man was capable of defying his own existence.

But she knew he was coming for her. Of that she was sure.

All she had to do was wait.


	2. As if by Magic

**Author's Note: **Sorry again for yet another long chapter. I tried to keep it short, but failed miserably, as I had certain plot points that simply had to be covered by the end of 'As if by Magic,' to stay on track. I should also post a warning at this point that there is a touch of bad language and some substantial violence towards the end of this chapter. Oh, and Jackson finally turns up too!

**Disclaimer** (which I clean forgot with Chapter One, so this applies to both!): I own nothing related to Red Eye &c, &c.

**CHAPTER TWO - As if by Magic**

So here was the thing. Lisa couldn't bear the idea of facing Jackson Rippner, but at the same time, she knew she had to – if only to get over everything that had happened to her. Call it _cathartic_, she told herself repeatedly, as she lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, torn between fear and hope of his coming for her.

Because that was surely be the only way she could meet up with Jackson again.

She reckoned she had a snowflake's chance in hell of tracking him down by herself.

And she had to be ready.

Hence the pocket-sized Dictaphone which she had concealed under her pillow.

If there was any hint of an intrusion … if Jackson should come … it could be easily grabbed, and used to record everything he said.

She wondered if she should also hide a weapon of some sort. A discreetly sized knife or the small canister of Mace she occasionally carried.

She decided on the Mace only.

After all, she didn't want to hurt Jackson. Not yet. What she wanted most of all was to get him talking. To reveal who he truly was. His name. What he had done. His involvement with the Keefe plot.

Then she'd have the evidence to seek a proper conviction.

So she waited, in hushed expectancy. Her body tensing at every tiny creak or patter, straining to hear the gentle roar then silence of a car pulling up outside, the light thud of a door closing.

But that night, nobody came.

XXXXXXXXXX

To get into her office, Lisa was forced to bustle through a clamor of smartly suited businessmen, who were milling around reception at the Lux Atlantic hotel. Lisa noted a sign pointing to the hotel's conference suite, reading _Global Finance Investment Strategies; Keynote Speaker – Ira Gershon (Global Securities Index)._

Well, that explains it, Lisa thought, as she tried to push her way into her office, but was barged off-course by a hotel workman, sporting an over-sized Maintenance tag on his lapels.

'Sorry Ma'am,' he wheezed. Lisa recoiled. He stunk of cigarette smoke. 'I've just fixed your phone. Good as new now Ma'am.'

'Fixed?' asked Lisa, perplexed.

'Was nothing. A loose connection,' he explained. He sniffed, backing away, a sloppy grin on his face.

A loose connection.

Lisa frowned. Was that good news, or bad news?

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa immediately called Eric, her head of security.

Eric was a little concerned about his newborn granddaughter. She had jaundice and seemed pretty unwell when he had seen her yesterday.

'Any worries you might have Eric, don't hesitate to take the time out. It's all cool with me,' Lisa said comfortingly.

'That's real sweet of you Miss Lisa,' Eric replied. There was a strained tone to his voice.

Lisa paused, feeling almost self-centered for burdening Eric with her concerns.

'I've just spoken to a guy from Maintenance – says my phone was broken,' she said, a little tentatively.

'Then I guess that explains your funny call yesterday.' He hesitated. 'Well. Almost.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, our records show you were called from inside the hotel. Like you said. Room 3111. Currently occupied by a Mr ….,' Lisa could hear Eric shuffling papers, ' … a Mr Gordon Buckley. Yup. That's the one.'

'Is he a regular?' Lisa asked, wondering what this Mr Buckley character had against HER. Or was it just a misdial, as Eric had suggested yesterday?

'He's sorta regular,' said Eric. He was clearly scrutinizing some kind of guest log at his end.

'You know what Eric – why don't we just pay this Mr Buckley a call?' Lisa asked brightly.

Eric seemed unwilling. 'Mightn't that scare the fellow unduly, Miss? He's not done anything wrong. Just dialed the wrong number.'

But Lisa wasn't so sure. In fact, she was still more than convinced that it was Jackson Rippner who had called her. She momentarily recalled what she felt sure were Jackson's soft, sighing breathes. A tremor of fear, almost of anticipation, rippled through her.

But she was steeled by a fierce sense of determination. If Jackson was behind this, she was going to make darned sure she found out.

'Eric. Meet me outside 3111,' she said abruptly.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was alone in the elevator, affording a moment's respite to straighten her suit jacket and push her hands through her thick auburn hair, smoothing it away from her face. It was a warm day and she was a little flushed, her clear, strong features glowing with an unnerving sense of excitement. She was faintly aware of a strangely knotted feeling gnawing away at her innards.

She gazed at herself in the mirror. Her green eyes were glossy, alive, a far cry from her usual depleted self. Somehow her newly-gritted desire to see Jackson again, to face him, rather than simply fear him, had revitalized her, imbuing her with fresh energy and focus.

The elevator ground to a halt, its doors sliding open with a loud hiss. Lisa stepped out.

For a busy breakfast time, Buckley's floor was seemingly devoid of people. Lisa strained to capture the sounds of everyday life, but all she could hear was a persistent droning hum, which Lisa instantly recognized to be the fault of a broken electric light at the far end of the corridor. She'd have to call Maintenance the moment she was back in her office.

Come to think of it, there had been a circuit failure on this floor just last week. But it should have been fixed by now.

She pursed her lips in irritation.

Lisa approached Buckley's room, 3111, with mild trepidation. Should she knock directly? Or wait for Eric to arrive?

What if … what if HE was inside? The mere thought of this quickened her pulse. She reached into her jacket pocket pulling out a tissue which she brushed across her forehead, suddenly aware that it was sheathed in a thin gleam of perspiration.

Eric was taking his time, she thought impatiently.

She again wondered why it was so quiet. Where was everybody? Were these the heaviest sleepers ever hosted by the Lux Atlantic, or the earliest risers?

The elevator dinged, and Eric shuffled out, panting a little. He jogged towards her, his gruff, old face sweating profusely. Just looking at him made Lisa feel hotter than ever.

'Is he in?' gasped Eric.

Lisa shrugged. 'I've no idea.'

'You didn't call already? Tell him we were on our way up?'

Lisa shook her head, ignoring the strange look Eric cast her.

Lisa rang the doorbell. A hoarse buzzing sound ripped through the silence. There was no reply. She pressed the doorbell again, this time with a firmer finger, and for a longer period, ensuring the raucous noise could not be ignored.

Eventually, thudding plods could be heard approaching the door. Even from this distance, the plods had an aggravated timbre. Something told Lisa not to expect the occupant of Room 3111 to be overjoyed at their impromptu little visit.

The door was swung open to reveal a heavy-set man, probably in his mid to late fifties, with a large, lionesque head, his sparse hair mussed up from sleep. He was sporting a sneering expression, bordering on the furious.

'What ya think you're doing?' he hollowed. 'Can't a man get some sleep round here?'

Lisa instantly recoiled, as her nostrils were assailed by the man's hot, pungent breath, which reeked of stale alcohol and cigarettes.

'I'm sorry to disturb you Sir,' she gabbled, desperately trying to regain her managerial poise. She thrust her hand forwards in greeting. 'I'm Lisa Reisert, manager of the Lux Atlantic.'

At first he looked uncertain. Then he enveloped her small, fine-boned hand with his own, tightly squeezing her palm with his oversized, pudgy fingers.

'Gordon Buckley,' he muttered.

Lisa smiled politely, desperately ignoring the fact that this sudden movement had dislodged the belt of Buckley's white toweling nightgown to reveal a voluminous stomach cascading over a pair of gold lamé leopard-skin boxers. She felt a little queasy, but carried on regardless.

'It's been drawn to our attention that there might be a problem with our customer communications system,' she said in efficient tones. 'Have you experienced any difficulties dialing out?' She peered around Buckley and nodded towards the phone, which was visible from the door, perched on a desk.

Buckley frowned, then shook his head 'Nah. I made a call yesterday. Was fine. '

'And when would that have been Sir?' Lisa asked.

Eric had pushed past them, as if to check the phone for himself. He ignored the cross expression which flashed across Buckley's face.

'Hey there! Do you mind?' Buckley said, his face a livid red. Eric halted instantly.

'Routine check Sir,' he mumbled.

'We can come back when it's convenient,' Lisa said, flashing Buckley her most charming smile.

Buckley visibly eased. 'Sure sweetheart.'

'But it would help to know when you made that call, Sir. For the record.'

'Oh right. 'Course. It was, er, around seven, seven fifteen. Thereabouts.'

'In the morning.'

'No, no. Last night. I was calling the wife. It's …it's family business. 's why I'm here.'

'I see,' Lisa said. Eric was still standing behind Buckley. He looked disbelieving.

'So definitely not in the morning then,' Lisa added, seeking further reiteration.

Buckley shook his head.

'No Miss. I was here till ten, or could have been eleven, I'm not sure.' He snorted in laughter, wetly smacking his lips. 'Sleeping. I like a good lie-in I do.'

Lisa felt a wave of revulsion surge into her throat.

'Thank you for your assistance Sir. Maintenance will be checking your communications system this afternoon,' she said, backing away, Eric close behind. 'We're sorry to have disturbed you. And sincerely hope you have a pleasant stay.'

Buckley slammed the door closed.

'So he sleep-calls,' muttered Eric.

'Looks like it.'

Lisa fingered the card-key entrance pad. It was a very sophisticated, secure system. How the hell did Jackson get past it? It was baffling.

Her eyes then flicked left and her stomach flipped. Buckley's room was right by the fire escape.

She hastened to the door and standing on tiptoe, prodded a security camera, which was angled in such a way that any intruder would instantly be caught in the act of breaking and entering. But why hadn't the alarm gone off?

'Eric,' she said eagerly. 'Can we get the footage from this camera for yesterday morning, shortly before and just after I was called?'

Eric looked shame-faced. ''Fraid not Miss. There was an incident on this floor last week, and since then the security systems have been out.'

Lisa sighed in exasperation. 'You've got to be kidding me.'

'The guys are onto it. Don't you worry Miss Reisert.'

'So you're telling me anyone could saunter into this hotel unnoticed?'

'I guess that's the long and short of it Miss. Mind you, it's not the alarm on the door that's broken, because THAT works off a different circuit. If someone used that door to get in, we'd all know about it. Believe you me.'

A thought dashed across Lisa's mind. 'But not if they used the door to get out,' she said.

Eric grimaced. 'What do you mean Miss?'

'What I mean is the alarm wouldn't sound if someone used the door to get out.'

Eric thought for a moment. 'No Miss. Not in that instance, no.' He stepped towards the fire escape and with a few deft flicks of the wrist, he turned the safety latch, pushing the door ajar. There was a low buzzing noise to indicate the door was open, but this ceased the moment he closed it.

'Of course that's not an alarm in the real sense of the word Miss,' he said.

They headed back to the elevator.

'Eric,' Lisa said. 'Can you do something for me?'

'Sure Miss.'

'My phone was working just fine the evening before I was called by … Mr Buckley's room. Can you check with Maintenance how it got broken?'

'You mean, was it deliberately disabled?'

Lisa grinned broadly. 'That's precisely what I mean.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Back in her office Lisa fielded a call from her father, reminding her that she was due to come for dinner that evening. He planned to cook Thai and seemed very excited about it. Lisa smiled fondly.

Eric called her the instant this conversation was over.

'Andy in Maintenance says it's very easy to disable the caller display function on your telephone. A monkey could do it. It's simply a matter of flicking a switch.'

'But it was a loose connection,' Lisa recalled.

'Maybe that's what he meant,' Eric said.

Lisa sighed. She couldn't go too hard on Eric here. He was having a tough time, and was clearly a little distracted by his family concerns.

She was almost reluctant to ask him one extra favour. But. She had to know.

'Eric. Could you get together the security footage from overnight to yesterday morning for me?'

'You want it all now?'

'If possible.'

'You do know my team are run off their feet with this Gershon guy coming, don't you Miss?'

'I'm truly grateful for this Eric,' Lisa said sincerely. 'I really am.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The lobby was refreshingly clear of conference delegates, hence Cynthia was looking more relaxed than usual at the reception desk. Lisa flashed her a warm smile.

'I wanted to thank you for covering for me yesterday,' she said gratefully. 'I take it Mrs Moncrieff is a contented customer. There's a bouquet sitting in my office as a token of her gratitude for our efforts last night – and they're for you.'

Cynthia beamed with pleasure. 'What a relief. I spent half the night trying to stop the finance guys from gate-crashing the Diamond Club's after dinner dance.'

'The finance guys being …?'

'Delegates. Geez. Some of those guys sure know how to party!' said Cynthia, her eyes agog in vivid gossip mode. 'They're up half the night in the bar, and they still make breakfast at 7 for an 8.00am start. I guess that's the meaning of work hard, play hard.'

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa hunkered down in the security booth, nursing a strong cup of coffee, as she dissected hours of footage from the night before last, on a TV monitor. It made for very dull viewing. There were a few straggling late arrivals, armed with suitcases, who Dana dealt with at reception. Even though the cameras didn't pan as far as Lisa's office behind the reception area, Lisa was sure she would be able to discern any strange movements towards that area, so it was worthwhile staying patient.

She kept watching, occasionally spooling ahead in slow-motion, pausing if anything caught her eye.

From about 2.00am onwards, the odd band of seemingly inebriated businessmen all but tumbled into the lobby, mainly heading for the elevators, although a few seemed to manage a swift detour to the lobby bar _en route_. These revelers were clearly conference delegates, Lisa thought, with growing interest.

According to her notes, the conference had opened two days before. There'd been time enough for the delegates to arrive, settle into their rooms, sign up for the relevant plenary sessions, hook up with old buddies … and certainly time for the party animals amongst them to head into Miami to sample the city's finest beach bars.

And then. There it was.

Lisa's heart felt it had missed a beat. She could barely breathe.

She spooled back a few minutes and re-watched.

At 5.33am Buckley had waddled unsteadily into the lobby. She recognized his lumbering gait as he stumbled forwards, and seemed to lurch drunkenly towards Dana, who maintained a polite smile, in spite of this provocation.

So much for an uneventful night, Lisa thought wryly, admiring the girl's stoic professionalism.

She then saw he had company. Two girls. Maybe even call-girls, judging by their get-up. They dragged Buckley towards the bar.

The bar itself was off-screen, but there was clearly a commotion underway. Dana was forced to leave reception.

The shuddering black and white footage showed Dana tripping across the lobby, a look of severe consternation on her face.

And in that instant another figure crossed the lobby, but seemed to pause until Dana was out of eye-shot. The lean, black-suited figure with dark hair, head bent, then darted leftwards – feasibly in the direction of Lisa's office.

However, the disarray in the bar appeared to catch his attention and he hesitated, slightly tilting his head to one side. Lisa gasped.

The grainy black and white video footage clearly revealed Jackson Rippner, his face starkly etched in shadow, his eyes ghoulishly cast as dark hollow orbs. A small smile seemed to linger on his lips as he observed whatever was happening in the bar area with Mr Buckley and his friends. And then he briskly moved off-camera.

Lisa could hear blood pounding fiercely in her ears. She was trembling.

Her instincts had been right all along. He'd been here. In this hotel. Perhaps even, in her house too.

It was him, not Buckley, who had made that call.

She'd always known it. It was HIS breathing she'd sensed, almost recognized, not a lumbering, sweaty, wheezy old oaf like Buckley. That would have been preposterous.

Lisa rewound the tape and then forwarded to the point where Jackson's face was best displayed. She paused the footage at this point and stared for what must have been a good few minutes at the striking features of the man who had tried to kill her, the man she had almost killed. Fear tingled through her, breath-robbing fear, mingled with a surge of adrenaline.

She giggled nervously. Helplessly. Hands cradling her face. What did she do now?

She suddenly felt very alone, sitting in this isolated, darkened room, lit only by the flickering TV screen. She checked her watch, alarmed to notice she had been trawling through footage for a good few hours. The thought made her feel both guilty, and very hungry, as she had missed lunch.

She desperately sought a piece of paper and something to write with, finally finding an old napkin and a pen and a spool of sticky tape. She scrawled on the napkin a note to Eric, telling her that the man on the TV screen was HIM, it was Jackson – or John Doyle, according to the official records of her case. She jotted down his time of entry, and asked Eric to call her – presuming all was well at home, Lisa thought with a jolt of concern. Eric had been called home by his wife just minutes after she entered the security booth and sat down to study the footage. And he was still to return.

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa left her father's house just after nine. It had been a pleasant enough meal, even if her Dad had been a little over-generous with the chillies in his Thai Banquet, which he had lovingly prepared, knowing it was one of her favorite foods. She felt a warm thrill of affection as she drove away, followed swiftly after, as was often the case these days, by a slight pang of anxious concern.

She knew how it felt to be threatened with losing him, and every time they said goodbye, she couldn't suppress the dark thought, the clenching panic … 'What if?'

In truth their evening had been slightly marred by a rather testy phone conversation Lisa had endured with her mother in Texas, which had led to her Dad coming on the phone to defend his daughter.

A couple of months ago Lisa's mother had announced her engagement to Tim Cotton, a man Lisa had tried but failed to like. Lisa had recently turned down her mother's invitation to spend some time with them on Tim's new boat, which was considered something of a flash beast in boating circles apparently. Her refusal had prompted some concern, her mother urging her to reconsider. But she had no intention of doing so. To her mind Tim was nothing but a smarmy stockbroker, fixated on how much money everyone earned, constantly boasting about his own wealth; he was more wedded to his golf clubs than her mother, she thought wryly.

Lisa knew her mother was desperate to get Tim and Lisa on friendly terms, which was perfectly understandable, and normally Lisa would have been all too ready to appease her mother, to 'do the right thing.'

But since Jackson, since the hearing, her tolerance level had waned. She was finding it more and more difficult to do stuff she simply didn't want to do; to 'people-please' for the sake of it.

But even though her Dad backed her decision not to visit Texas – Lisa had complained that she had too much work – she sensed that he wasn't entirely happy with her either. She wasn't behaving like HIS Lisa. Something was amiss.

The skies overhead were rapidly darkening, as Lisa sped away from her father's house. She didn't live too far away, but was having to make a detour. Cynthia had called her cell phone to tell her that Dana would not be in work for the next two days, as her little boy had taken ill, but Lisa was desperate to ask Dana about the 'uneventful' night when Jackson Rippner had managed to sneak into her office whilst Dana was on duty.

XXXXXXXXXX

Based on Cynthia's somewhat erratic directions, Lisa parked as close to Dana's apartment block as she could, in a half-empty, dusty parking-lot, situated directly behind Dana's building.

She quickly scanned the area, none too happy about having to leave her gleaming red Toyota unattended. This seemed a pretty unsavory neighborhood, comprising a batch of mid-rise project blocks, connected by covered walkways, which were far from inviting.

There was an air of desolation here which alarmed Lisa, almost persuading her to get straight back into her car and drive home. She had been reluctant to call Dana, in fear of waking her sickly child. Plus it was more her style to see employees face to face, when she could, as a matter of courtesy. But Lisa couldn't deny that the long shadows creeping ominously across the parking lot were something of a deterrent.

Pull yourself together, Lisa said to herself. She had to remind herself that she had faced off no less than Jackson Rippner, and come out on top. She gritted her teeth, and headed purposefully towards Dana's block.

Thankfully Dana quickly answered Lisa's slightly frenzied ringing of the doorbell. Lisa's panicked expression instantly melted into her customary open, friendly smile.

Dana, meanwhile, was a little taken aback to see her employer standing on her doorstep at this hour. Dana certainly presented very differently to the smart, confident figure she cut at work, dressed in drab sweats, with a bedraggled demeanor.

Lisa could hear a child crying plaintively in the background, at the end of a long, dingy hallway.

'Miss Reisert? How can I help you?' Dana asked nervously.

'Hi there Dana. I'm real sorry to call on you at this hour,' Lisa said apologetically, 'but I, I was passing, so I thought I'd drop by, as I had something I wished to ask you.'

Dana folded her arms defensively across her chest, and eyed Lisa suspiciously.

A flush of self-conscious embarrassment stole across Lisa's cheeks. _What had she been thinking?_ _It really would have been easier to call._

'It's no big deal,' Lisa continued bravely. 'Just a quick question about the night before last, when you were on shift.'

Her words were met with a tense, expectant silence from Dana, punctuated by shrill cries from her child indoors. Lisa realized she was not going to be invited into Dana's apartment. So the sooner this was done, the better.

'I … I was checking some of the security footage, and I noticed there was an incident, while you were at reception. About half past five in the morning.'

Dana's face barely flickered.

'A guest - Mr Gordon Buckley, he's staying in Room 3111 – arrived at the hotel with two girls. Do you remember that?'

Dana stared at Lisa, bemused.

She went on. 'Well, on film, it looks like there was an incident in the bar, and you left reception …'.

Dana's expression suddenly shifted gear, in recollection. She looked guilty, concerned.

'It was just for a moment,' Lisa said, in calming tones. 'You're not in trouble Dana, don't worry.'

'It was nothing really,' Dana explained. 'Just one of Buckley's girls … she was sick. All over the leather suite in the bar.'

Lisa pulled a face in empathy. 'Ugh. You poor thing.'

Dana smiled wanly. 'That Mr Buckley. He's always trying it on. He brings back these girls. These hookers.' She almost spat out the word. 'Takes them to his room, and then has the cheek to show you photos of his family. He _claims _to be happily married.'

Lisa fixed her face into a matching expression of contempt. Although the thought now struck her that maybe 'hookers' were why he didn't want Eric to investigate his telephone this morning? Maybe he had company?

She shivered involuntarily. Even though it was a warm, clammy night, something about standing in the gloomy doorway of Dana's home, in a pool of sickly yellow light, surrounded by ever-deepening darkness, was creeping her out. The back of her head prickled uneasily. Lisa had an unnerving but undeniable sense that they were being watched.

'There … there was something else,' she said, lowering her tones, leaning closer towards Dana. 'The reception security camera showed another guy … he might even have been with Buckley … who came into the lobby around the same time. It's possible he entered my office.'

Dana shook her head adamantly. 'There was no-one else Miss Reisert.'

Lisa realized that Dana had probably been too preoccupied with Buckley and his companions to observe Jackson's entrance. But still …

'This man … he's very recognizable.' Lisa groped for words at this point. 'If you've seen him once, you're unlikely to forget him. Maybe you caught a fleeting glimpse but didn't realize what you'd seen?'

'OK. What's this guy look like?'

Jackson's face instantly filled Lisa's mind. Every fine nuance, every detail, each and every line and contour of his sculpted cheek-bones, the curve of his mouth, his chill-blue eyes that could be dancing with light and charm one moment, cruel and cold the next.

She took a deep breath.

'He has dark hair. Kind of a fresh, young-looking face. With blue eyes.' She paused here. 'Very, very blue eyes. They kind of burn into you …' she added emphatically.

Dana's face lit up. 'Eyes to die for.'

Lisa smiled. 'I guess so. You remember him then?'

Dana laughed. 'Oh boy, don't I? He's a real looker. But he wasn't with Buckley.'

Lisa frowned. She knew he was. She'd seen him.

'He comes during the day,' Dana said. 'Quite early in the morning.' She thought a moment. 'And in the afternoon too I guess.'

Lisa could feel her heart racing in her chest. 'Since when? … When did you first see him?'

Dana pondered a moment. 'Just a couple of days before Buckley and his hookers … before my shift switched to nights.'

'So, since the start of the global finance conference?' Lisa said pensively.

'Yeah. I guess so. Maybe the day before it kicked off.' Dana smiled. 'He's not a guest.'

Lisa grimaced. 'I know.'

Dana's child embarked on another round of high-pitched shrieking. Her eyes shifted anxiously towards the hallway.

'Look, I'd better go,' Lisa said. 'You've been very helpful.'

Dana's eyes were round with worry. 'You're sure I'm not in trouble?'

'Positive.' Lisa squeezed Dana's arm reassuringly. 'Have a good break. And I hope your kid gets better soon.'

'Thanks Miss Reisert,' Dana said.

XXXXXXXXXX

Once Dana had closed her door, all light was extinguished.

Lisa scuttled back to the parking-lot, her steps getting faster and faster, as though she was trying to flee the all-enveloping darkness which had descended around her.

But as she approached the parking-lot, she realized, with cold, sickly fear, that she was not alone. Above the roar of her own blood drumming in her ears, she could hear a loud clattering bang of metal being dashed to the concrete ground, amidst mirthless cheers and whoops. There was a loud thunk, then a crash of glass, followed by hoots of laughter.

Lisa stood stock-still in the tall shadow cast by Dana's apartment block, at first, too terrified to proceed any further. She then crept forwards to peer through the windows of a parked car, a bashed-up Cadillac, and saw two youths, their features indistinct in the darkness, although she could just about make out that they were smashing up her Toyota with what looked like iron bars.

She instinctively crouched down to avoid being spotted, but in that same instant, she felt a hand grasp her from behind, forcing her roughly against the cold metal of the Cadillac she was hiding behind, smashing her head heavily against the car's windscreen.

She tried to scream but couldn't, as her assailant's hand crushed her throat, his other hand grabbing at her jacket which was dragged from her shoulders. She could hear him calling his mates – a vague booming noise above the dazed burble that was currently fizzing through her head. She gradually become aware of a sharp pain, just above her right ear, and could feel a trickle of hot blood slithering down her neck, staining her blouse.

Tears pricked her eyes as she felt a warm frenzied rush of limbs and hands grabbing at her. Someone was pulling her head back by the hair, their knee jabbing painfully into the small of her back, ensuring she couldn't move from her standing position at the car. The hand clutching her throat released her, choosing instead to slide slowly up her legs, egged on by cackling laughter.

Hot sick filled her mouth. She desperately wanted to cry out, but her voice had been strangled to a rasp. Instead, she was shaking with dry, retching sobs, her body convulsed with fear.

_Not again, not again_, she begged.

Almost three years ago she had been raped in a parking-lot, a crime which had left its scars, emotional and physical - a thin white mark on her chest. She had vowed to never let it happen again.

But here she was. Powerless, defenceless, against the combined forces of these three men. She soon realized she was panting, squealing with fear, as they pushed her onto the ground, pawing at her like animals.

Her head was dashed onto the concrete.

Then. Out of the blue. There was a thunderous report, which exploded into the air above her. One of her attackers was flung backwards, falling in a crumpled heap beside her. Hot sticky blood gushed towards her, soaking her blouse, her skirt. The jeers suddenly ceased.

Lisa's ears were ringing from the deafening shock of it all. She rapidly recoiled from her attacker's blood, gagging in disgust.

Yelps of fear and a mad scamper of feet indicated that her attackers were trying to flee; one set of footsteps soon skidded out of earshot but the scrape of shoes being scuffed on concrete and pleading whimpers indicated that his companion had been caught, and was now being dragged unceremoniously towards her.

Lisa couldn't make out how it happened, but the youth was thrown with considerable violence and a loud clunk against the Cadillac. His body crashed limply to the ground and he lay still, juddering, convulsed by groans.

'No man, no!' he begged his silent attacker, who Lisa could sense was now standing beside her. She saw a glint of cold metal flash momentarily, and then he lunged forwards, kicking the youth, pulling him upwards and across the car's bonnet.

Lisa buried her head in her hands, trying to block out what was happening.

It's me next, she thought. Oh God no. Please, no.

She frantically tried to crawl away, her knees grazing against the concrete, desperate to hide in the shadows, maybe try to get back to Dana's. But she could hear him approaching.

'Leave me alone!' she screamed, rolling herself as far as she could towards the back-end of the car.

But there was no stopping him.

A leather-gloved hand reached down and, despite her frenzied twisting to escape his grasp, she was pulled upwards to a standing position by her shoulder. She kept her eyes tightly shut, as another gloved hand encircled her neck, then cradled her head.

Lisa could now hear his breathing, which was slightly labored, close to her ear, as his head bent towards her own. With his free hand he shone a flashlight in her face. She blinked into the blinding white light, trying to turn her face away, shielding her eyes, her body bridling as he pinned her against the car.

'Lisa,' he whispered. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'

A fresh ripple of fear surged through her, mingled with a strange exhilaration.

Her eyes darted sideways, and she saw through the white haze of the flashlight, that her rescuer was none other than Jackson Rippner, his piercing blue eyes staring intently at her.

Where had he come from? He had appeared from nowhere. As if by magic.

Lisa felt winded, as though all the air had been sucked from her body. Her legs went to jelly. She could barely stand, and was now wholly supported by Jackson's weight pushing against her.

'Leave me alone,' she gasped, wracked with panic and close to tears. 'Jackson. Please.'

She tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

'Don't be silly Lisa,' Jackson said drolly. 'This is a very nasty neighborhood. It's not a place for a nice girl like you.'

His hands were now locked onto her arms. She briefly struggled against him, but his hold on her simply tightened. Seized with hot seething fury against the man who had tormented her all these months, Lisa summoned as much force as she could possibly muster, wrenching her arms free, then peppering him with blows. She clawed at him, scratching his face with her nails, then with one hand, she grabbed one of his ears, which she squeezed tightly.

Stung by pain, Jackson sharply smacked her arm down, jamming her elbow against the car as she lost her footing and stumbled backwards, now spread-eagled on the bonnet.

'Now THAT wasn't very nice, was it? I'll have to reassess your character,' he said, his voice cold, menacing.

He pulled himself into a standing position, looming above her. Then, in one swift movement, he scooped her into his arms and hastened towards a black BMW which was parked some fifty yards away.

Despite his best efforts to keep her arms, and more importantly, her fists, which she had screwed up into fierce little balls, pinned to her side, one fist still broke free and was soon set on punching him in the chest, the shoulder, the neck where she gleefully recalled she had injured him once before, stabbing him with a pen.

She noticed his breathing was ragged with the effort of carrying her while holding her so tightly.

He set her down, pulling open the door of the front passenger's side, while still retaining a firm hold on her, his arms encircling her waist, so she didn't try to run away.

'Get in the car,' he demanded hoarsely.

'You've got to be joking,' Lisa spluttered.

'Just do what I tell you,' he hissed.

She could sense his rising anger.

'No,' she said coolly.

He sighed. 'I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you're worrying about.'

Lisa quivered in disgust and fear. 'You expect me to believe that? What the hell did you just do to those kids over there?'

'Nothing they didn't deserve,' Jackson said darkly. 'Those kids, Lise, dismantled your car and were going to rape you repeatedly, before beating you to a bloody pulp and leaving you for dead. You do realize I just saved your sorry ass, don't you?'

She did realize it. That was half the problem. But she loathed that HE, of all people, was her rescuer. The idea that she should bear him any gratitude was beyond endurance.

But yes. He had probably saved her life.

'Where are you taking me?' Lisa asked tremulously, studying his face.

He stared directly into her eyes . 'Home of course.'

Again, she tried to squirm out of his hold.

'YOUR home,' he added, tightening his grip.

'How can I be sure?' she said.

'Dear me Lisa. You're so untrusting.' Jackson grinned. 'Most particularly when _I_ am currently the least of your worries.'

His face suddenly clouded with impatience. 'Any minute now, our little runaway's going to show up, and you can bet he won't be alone. So quit moaning Lise, and get in the fucking car!'

Lisa realized she had precious little choice in the matter and sat down.

She watched as Jackson fetched something from the trunk of the car. He moved rapidly towards her smashed-up Toyota, and then walked slowly round the car, methodically coating it with what Lisa could only presume was gasoline, judging by the dark, square can he was holding. He then stepped back, struck a match and threw it at Lisa's car, before chasing back to the relative safety of his BMW. He leaped into the driver's seat, cranked the car into life and sped out of the parking-lot.

There was a loud crashing explosion directly behind them as Lisa's Toyota burst into flames.

'I loved that car,' she said miserably, gazing sorrowfully out of the window.

Jackson stared straight ahead at the road, unmoved by the pyrotechnics in his rear-view mirror.

Lisa shot him a quick glance, barely able to believe where she was, who she was with.

She took a deep breath. She had to keep her cool. Stay focused. Even though her head was spinning with an increasingly hysterical mantra: What do I do? What do I do? Oh God help me. What do I do?


	3. A Means to an End

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the kind comments I have received as 'Reviews'. It means a lot to me, especially as this is my first ever Fan Fiction.

This was a difficult chapter to write, strangely so, because it concentrates entirely on Lisa and Jackson, and is their first big encounter in the story. Therefore a lot of emotional background had to be covered, (although not everything is as it seems of course), but not too much … this relationship is set to evolve. Plus, it was more difficult than I thought, keeping to Lisa's POV, when it was often so tempting to switch to Jackson. So I had to restrain myself (we'll probably get his POV later in the story). It was a tough balance, and I'm not entirely sure I've got it right, in respect of the rest of the story. But hopefully so!

One other point – well, a request really, as I am a novice at posting stories on this site – I haven't worked out how to list my chapters as named 'titles' – even though each chapter does have its own heading. Do I have to delete each chapter and reload to do this? Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

And finally: warnings for strong language and some sensuality.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**3. A Means to an End**

Lisa could hardly believe she was standing in her kitchen with Jackson Rippner, the man who, just six short months ago, had tried to kill her. And yet here he was, rifling through her kitchen units looking for some kind of band-aid to dress the cut above her right ear, which was seeping blood profusely.

'Does it need stitches?' Lisa asked, in a shaky voice, padding the wound with a clump of cotton wool. Her head certainly ached where those thugs had bashed her into the abandoned Cadillac. She recalled with a shiver how they had grabbed at her, ripping at her clothes, like out of control animals.

Jackson glanced over to her. 'No. You'll be fine. It's a scratch.'

A scratch? Then why did it hurt so much?

She suddenly felt woozy with pain, and a strange weariness. She tottered, having to grab the edge of her kitchen table for support.

Jackson offered his arm, to lead her to a chair close by, but she brushed him away furiously.

'I can do it myself,' she said bitterly.

'Like hell you can,' he muttered, throwing her arm over his shoulder and guiding her to the cream couch in her sitting room, where he slowly slid her into a reclining position.

Lisa shut her eyes, ignoring the sound of Jackson's brisk movements as he fetched surgical spirit, lint and dressings. In fact, she wanted to ignore he was here at all. Blank out his presence.

Having decided that she wanted to see him again, to face him down, to confront him, this homey little scenario was not quite what she'd had in mind.

She felt a little cheated.

Jackson sat next to her on the couch, and hoisted her into an upright position. He manoeuvred her head so that he could more easily access her wound.

'This is going to hurt,' he warned, dabbing her wound with a damp pad with one hand, whilst firmly cradling her head with the other. She jerked in response to the searing pain which shot through her.

'That stung,' she complained. She opened her eyes.

She was shocked how close his face was to her own. She automatically recoiled.

He smirked and roughly pulled her back towards him.

'Dear me Lise. I didn't have you pegged as a coward,' he murmured.

His chill blue eyes were alive with smug amusement.

Lisa couldn't bear his laughing at her, his easy proximity, his relaxed intimacy, as though they were old friends. Even if he HAD just rescued her. It was too much to bear.

Hot anger unexpectedly boiled up inside her.

She struck out, slapping him forcefully in the face.

She was almost as surprised as he was, and even a little ashamed. He hadn't really deserved that. Not now, at this moment.

His hand instantly went to his cheek, which was stained red, and smarting. The amusement in his eyes had vanished. Instead. Cold sneering fury.

He grabbed her by the throat, his lips curled in contemptuous rage, and forced her onto her back. Lisa could barely breathe, aware that his weight was pinning her deeper into the couch's cushions. She tried to move her head so that she was facing him, but he had a hand buried deep into her hair, and was squashing her face into the couch's cream fabric. She kicked and bucked, desperate to free herself from his grip, from the confines of his hard, lean body which pressed against her.

And then as soon as it had happened, it was over.

Jackson suddenly released her, springing up from the couch and staring down at her. She twisted her body around to look at him, fearlessly meeting his gaze. He was flushed and panting.

'I see you still have a temper,' she choked, caressing her throat. She'd have bruises, she thought. _Good. Proof that he'd tried to hurt her._

'You've ruined your furnishings,' he said drolly.

Sure enough, the cream covers were stained brown-red from the copious blood on Lisa's blouse and skirt.

Her attacker's blood.

Lisa stared at her blood-sodden clothes, her face contorted in sickly revulsion. She retched, her hands flying to her mouth.

Leaping up from the couch she ran for the staircase, colliding heavily with a table on the way, scrambling to get upstairs, to get these clothes off, to get clean.

XXXXXXXXXX

She sought solace in her en-suite bathroom, a haven of sparkling clean white ceramics and reassuringly shiny metal fittings. She tore her clothes from her body, sobbing with impassioned disgust as she recalled how they had got bloody, re-living, yet again, the heart-stopping moment when her attackers had pounced, clawing at her savagely.

She had been relieved when Jackson had stopped them. Of course she had. But that too had been so gruesome, so very terrible.

Finally naked, she kicked the offending clothes away from her, bile rising into her gorge at the mere sight of them. Hot tears flooded her cheeks. Her head was pounding: a mixture of pain and pent-up emotion.

This was a natural response, she told herself. She couldn't expect to simply function as normal, as though nothing had happened. Not after witnessing the deaths of those two young men – even if they had been intent on harming her. Possibly even killing her.

But the man downstairs. The man who had saved her 'sorry ass' as he himself had put it, seemed wholly unmoved by these events. It was business as usual for Jackson Rippner.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror hoisted above her pedestal basin. She was a pitiful sight. Her auburn tresses were unkempt, soaked with sweat and blood. Sticky brown smears coated her face, and a small swab of lint was hanging loosely from a deep cut streaked across her right temple. Her chest was heaving in uncontrolled pants, her body coated in gleaming perspiration, mottled with blood – but not her blood.

A whirl of panic shot through her, like a cold wind.

What the heck was Jackson up to now? Why had she even let him into her house?

She must have been crazy, delirious.

It had all happened so quickly.

But her mind was clearing now. She had to suppress the stream of anxious thoughts which swooped constantly through her head.

_Get a grip. Take control_, she said to herself.

First up. What if Jackson came in? Found her. Like this?

With frantic, scrabbling fingers she bolted the bathroom door.

Now for a long, hot shower.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa slid to the floor of the shower cubicle, relishing the hot, drumming water as it cascaded at full force onto her skin. It was soothing, calming, yet strangely exciting too. She wallowed in the feeling of being lost in the thunderous noise of the water, able, momentarily, to switch off her thoughts, wash away the horrors of her evening.

Her eyes flipped open.

Of course that wasn't going to be possible. She still had to think about how she could get rid of Jackson Rippner, get him out of her house.

In spite of the steaming heat of the shower, a shiver tingled through her.

She took a deep breath, telling herself, repeatedly, over and over again. _Think straight Lisa. Think clear_._ Take control._

Yes. Take control. That was what she had to do.

OK, so yes, Jackson had rescued her – which was kind of humiliating in its own way. She had no desire to be his damsel in distress, to give him that satisfaction. But still. She probably owed him – a little.

No you don't, yelled a more strident voice in her head. _Don't be a sucker_. This guy tried to kill you, he attacked your father, he used you, manipulated you, with heartless ease. She couldn't just forget who he was. What he had put her through. What he _still_ put her through.

And what was he doing in that parking lot anyway?

He'd been following her. Haunting her. Which meant all her suspicions were correct.

She angrily thumped the tiled wall of the shower.

He was creepy, if not downright dangerous. He had said he wouldn't kill her. And she'd believed him.

But what if he was lying?

He'd once told her that he'd never lied to her, and she'd believed him, even then, while he was blithely, wittingly, throttling any happiness she'd struggled so hard to attain, out of her life.

But that didn't mean he never WOULD lie to her, did it? Say, in a different, perhaps non-professional, situation.

_Bad things happen to good people_, he'd said. _People like you_ … .

Why should that be any different now?

Lisa huddled her knees to her chest, embracing herself tightly, lost in thought.

So what did he want of her?

What does that matter? She thought.

What mattered most was what she wanted of HIM. She wanted him caught and sentenced. Not so much for his role in the plot to kill Keefe – although this had been a primary motive for her in the initial days and weeks after that fateful flight – but this was for herself. For the mental agonies she had suffered. The multiple, excruciating embarrassments. The heated rage which had consumed her when she had realized how Jackson, how someone, some people, close to Jackson, had double-crossed her, double-crossed everybody.

Something stunk.

And he was the key to finding out precisely what that was.

But there was no point her going to the Police now. Tonight. Jackson had been particularly scathing, when they were driving to her house, about what type of reaction she could expect from the police, if she was to announce that _John Doyle_ was visiting. He joked darkly that the police would offer HIM protection from her.

No. She needed proof of his lies, before she approached the Police.

With renewed vigor, Lisa hauled herself out of the shower. She roughly dried her hair with a towel, allowing her body to drip-dry.

She felt clean, renewed, and determined to eke out the truth from Jackson.

She had the Dictaphone. She could record him. Get her evidence.

She grabbed her bath-robe, a thin, satin number which clung stickily to her hips – perhaps not the best outfit for interrogating a psychotic killer, but one glimpse at her bloody clothes scrunched into a heap next to the lavatory proved she had no other alternative.

She needed that Dictaphone. And fast. The sooner she got him to talk, got him to say what she needed him to say, the quicker he was out of here, and out of her life for good.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa hurried into her bedroom. She didn't bother with the light. Just kneeled on the bed and groped around for her pillow, the one with the Dictaphone lurking underneath it.

But instead her hands hit body, hair, a face.

She screamed in fright, instantly catapulting herself backwards, off the bed, as if electrified.

Jackson appeared to have other ideas. He roughly grabbed her wrist, then hauled her back onto the bed beside him.

Still holding her, Jackson swiftly turned to flick on her bedside lamp.

A pale orange glow illuminated the room.

Lisa now saw that not only was Jackson sprawled across her bed, but his head was resting on the pillow which hid the Dictaphone.

'You … you startled me,' Lisa explained, panting with shock.

She desperately tried to release her hand from his grasp, but he wouldn't let go, his nails digging into her wrist.

One glimpse of his face, however, revealed that he too, had been taken by surprise, even terrified. His eyes were wide and staring, his nostrils slightly flared, his breathing hard and labored.

Lisa tried to keep her voice clear and steady, wary of the manic glint in Jackson's eyes.

'OK Jackson. What … what the hell are you doing on my bed?'

Jackson looked nonplussed. A little dazed.

'You're on my bed!' Lisa yelled, calmness deserting her. 'Get off!'

Jackson frowned.

'No need to shout Lise. I'm right next to you.'

'I realize that _Jack_. That's the problem,' Lisa hissed furiously, frantically trying to extricate her hand from his firm grasp. 'You're hurting me,' she moaned. 'Let me go.'

Jackson smiled nonchalantly, seeming to relish her discomfort. But his grip relaxed a little, although he didn't quite relinquish his hold, his hand still resting on her arm.

Lisa sneered, flicking his hand away. She sat bolt upright, staring down at him, her eyes burning with indignation.

'So come on. Tell me. What are you doing?'

Jackson grinned. His clear blue eyes suddenly dancing with merriment.

'Oh. I was tired. Fell asleep,' he said lazily. 'It happens you know.'

'You sick bastard,' Lisa muttered.

Didn't he realize she hated the mere thought of HIM, of all people, sleeping on her bed?

But of course he did. This was his warped idea of fun.

But she needed him off this bed. She needed that Dictaphone. It was her only chance to nail him.

'Please leave Jackson,' she said coldly. 'I want to get dressed.'

He glanced at her radio/alarm clock. 'What ever for? You're normally tucked up in bed by now,' he said. 'Not that you'd actually be sleeping of course.'

He settled back onto the pillow, hands behind his head, eyes closed, and sighed, an exaggerated sigh of contentment, clearly designed to aggravate her.

Lisa couldn't believe what he was doing.

'Don't think you're sleeping here,' she growled furiously, shoving at him with both hands, hoping to topple him off the bed.

'Get out! Get out!' she shrieked. 'Or I'll call the police, and I don't care WHO they think you are.'

She reclined her body backwards, and summoning all her strength, she kicked him in the side.

Jackson was too quick for her. He grabbed her ankles, pulling her towards him. But she then pummeled him ferociously with her fists, so he changed tack, pushing her roughly backwards, with so much force, her head smashed against the headboard.

She surged against him, ignoring the pain she was feeling, and clenching her teeth, she grabbed at his stomach, pinching as much flesh as she could manage, which was precious little. Jackson was a lean man.

He yelped in sudden pain, thrusting her aside. But before she could leap off the bed, he swiftly rolled towards her, sliding his arms tightly around her, gathering her close to him.

'Where are you going, Lise?' he snarled.

This proximity was unbearable, Lisa thought. His body was wedged tight, next to hers. So close, she could feel him, trembling with anger. He flipped her over, onto her back, and pinioned her legs to the bed below him with his knees.

She was painfully aware of his hard gaze, as his face hovered directly above her.

If we were lovers, she thought dismally, this hold, this nearness, would be so natural. So warm. So enticing.

But they hated each other instead.

Yet try as she might, she couldn't suppress the wave of excitement which throbbed softly through her, the faint knotting in her belly.

And she knew, in that moment, that Jackson had had that exact same thought. His face softened yet she felt his body tensing against her, wishing to press closer, yet reluctant too.

Perhaps then, she thought, this is the way. Her best weapon. The best way to be rid of Jackson Rippner.

_A means to an end. _

With tremulous intent, she plunged a hand into his thick, dark hair, pulling his face even closer, so close she could feel his hot breath tingling against her skin, while she surreptitiously snaked her other hand under the pillow, desperately grappling for the Dictaphone.

The sound of Jackson's ragged breathing, coming in short, rapid bursts, filled the silence which weighed heavily between them. Lisa lay perfectly still, sharply aware that her heart was thumping loudly, almost bouncing out of her rib-cage, as her hand fumbled, trying to find the Dictaphone, with the tiniest, slowest movements, to avoid drawing his attention.

She needed to distract him further.

So she reared upwards and faintly grazed her lips against his.

Jackson jerked his mouth away, as if stung.

She held her breath, frightened at what she had done. What he might do.

He stared down at her, a confused expression on his face.

Then he slowly traced a finger over the soft skin on her face, her chin, her lips, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on her throughout.

He subtly shifted position, aligning his body even closer with her own, so that he was now completely lying on top of her.

Lisa was startled to find she was moving her own body to accommodate him, even though she was acutely conscious that this was Jackson Rippner, the man of her nightmares, who was stroking her face, roughly intertwining his fingers with her damp hair.

She gulped in panic, stiffening in expectation, as she realized he was going to kiss her in return. She couldn't twist her face away, because his hand was firmly steering her head in his direction.

She closed her eyes.

He kissed her. Tentatively at first, even tenderly. A soft, light breeze of a kiss.

His hand slid slowly up the outside of her clingy bathrobe, over her leg, her hip, close to her tummy, where it rested, an unmistakable warm presence.

She was unable to dismiss the shiver of anticipation which shuddered through her.

Under the pillow, Lisa's fingers flailed frantically for the Dictaphone.

At last she found it.

This was her big chance. All she had to do was press the 'record' button.

And dismiss the thought that this, this _activity_, this distraction, was so intensely, so shockingly enjoyable.

But try as she might, she was struggling to disengage.

She managed to untangle her hand from Jackson's hair, sliding it down his neck, and then down his back, which exuded warmth through his shirt.

She could feel Jackson quivering beneath her fingers. His physical responsiveness startled her, even thrilled her a little if she was being brutally honest.

Jackson had become something of a a monster to her. An admittedly handsome, but slightly inhuman automaton. A cold, heartless machine. Not a real-life, sensual, flesh-and-blood man, who was so driven by desire, he was hardly able to control his breathing, who winced at her every touch.

She pulled her hand away, desperately trying to collect her thoughts.

'Lisa,' Jackson whispered, burying his face in her hair. His mouth brushed her neck, her face, then caressed her lips.

Hell, Lisa thought, panic bubbling up inside of her.

_I can't stop this. I have to stop this._

But she didn't even know if she wanted to.

Her hand covered the Dictaphone's hard plastic casing. Her fingers fidgeted amongst the buttons, until she found the right one. Just press it, she said to herself. Just press it. Shut your mind off. Ignore this. Ignore him.

Jackson's hand wound itself even tighter into her hair. He pulled her closer. She could feel his heart beating furiously against her own.

He kissed her again, gently at first, then deeply, hungrily.

Now. Do it. Press the button, she thought.

But the urgency was draining away from her, as she found herself succumbing to the dense warmth of Jackson's mouth, the surge of heated arousal which was pulsing through her, urging her to press her body hard against his.

This is all wrong. So very, very wrong, she thought.

He trailed soft, damp kisses down her throat, then he was kissing her deeply again, full on the mouth, gently grinding against her.

Don't forget who he is, she said to herself primly. Don't feel. Stop feeling.

She had to do it now.

But she was getting lost.

She gasped as Jackson's hand smoothly, slowly, moved from her tummy, traveling upwards, over her ribs, to cup her breast. His touch was featherlight, teasing.

Fresh urgency seemed to sweep through him. His breathing had become rasped and uneven. His mouth pressed harder, deeper, while his body crushed tightly, rhythmically, against hers.

She could sense he was beginning to lose control.

And in spite of herself, she couldn't help responding, softly moaning in pleasure whilst kissing him passionately in return, hooking her legs around him, drawing him closer.

A tiny stab of alarm shot through her. _What the hell was she doing?_

But it was enough to clear her mind, for that one crucial moment.

She couldn't let this, let IT, happen. Not with him. She just couldn't. All she'd planned to do was provide a distraction. Just enough to get hold of the Dictaphone.

_To do the right thing._

She clutched at the Dictaphone and stabbed frenetically at the Record button.

OK, so it would record her and Jackson making out, which was perhaps a little embarrassing, and wouldn't quite mesh with her portrayal of Jackson Rippner, as a terrifying psychotic killer, when she played it back to the police investigators.

But it would be what he said that mattered.

But first she had to get him talking, and at this moment in time, that seemed unlikely.

She had to say something. Had to stop this, before it got out of hand. Before SHE got out of hand.

'Jackson,' she murmured. 'Please. Stop it.'

But his hold on her only intensified.

She retracted her hand from the pillow, faintly aware of the Dictaphone whirring underneath her, and pushed Jackson's face away from her own.

Caught off-guard, Lisa noticed a momentary sadness, a boyish confusion, flash across his features.

Then his face hardened. Becoming the Jackson she knew and dreaded.

He swept her hand away and his mouth dived back to her own.

She writhed, twisting her face away, shoving at him with her torso, trying to wriggle her legs free from under him, but he was wrapping himself around her in an ever-tightening python hold.

She didn't dare look at his face, but she could sense he was grinning.

She battened his chest with her fists, aware of her rising panic, desperate to control it. This is not the time, she thought grimly, breathing heavily. Not the time for that familiar dreaded clutching in her chest … .

'Please Jackson. No,' she sobbed. 'Please don't.'

He halted, pulling away from her with sudden abruptness.

Lisa sighed, relieved. She sat up.

She couldn't help but notice that without his warm body weight against her, she was suddenly cold.

And then, surprising herself yet again, Lisa slapped Jackson in the face – for the second time that evening. She gasped at what she'd done.

His skin instantly glowed bright red.

Oddly, Jackson didn't react, as she feared he might. If anything he backed away even further.

He rubbed his smarting cheek, all the while staring at her intently.

Lisa grabbed a pillow – ensuring it was not the pillow concealing the Dictaphone, which she was now leaning against – and hugged it tightly against her, in self-defense, drawing her legs up and away from him.

'Well, well Lisa,' he said eventually, in mocking tones. 'I must say I'm surprised. I didn't know you cared so much.'

His eyes flicked from her face to her body and back again. He was sneering disdainfully, his crystalline, blue eyes brimming with sarcastic amusement.

Anger bubbled up fiercely inside of her. But she had to control her emotions. Her sudden loathing. She had to get him talking.

'You …you took advantage of me,' she stuttered, holding the pillow tightly to her chest.

Jackson laughed, his eyes crinkling in mirth. 'I what?' he asked, astounded.

'You heard,' she said through gritted teeth. OK, so it wasn't strictly true, but all the same … .

Jackson was open-mouthed. He regarded her curiously. And then.

'If you think I was going to … do anything you didn't want me to,' he said slowly. 'Then you're very much mistaken.'

She remained tight-lipped.

'I wouldn't do that,' he added, his face stern.

She glowered at him. 'Then why are you here, on my bed, _Jack_?' she said, almost spitting the words out.

He reddened. '_You_ kissed _me_, _Lise_,' he replied bitterly. He jumped off the bed, away from her, and started straightening his clothes, tucking in his rumpled shirt which had broken free from his pants. He looked at her, a contemptuous smile on his face.

'Anyway, You're not my type. You're too fucking complicated.'

Lisa exploded with sudden rage. She sprang up to a standing position on the bed and threw the pillow she was holding with venomous force at Jackson's head. He swerved. The pillow crashed against her dressing table, launching a range of bottles with a loud clatter onto the floor.

'In that case, _Jackson Rippner,_' she said, emphasizing his name – she had to fight the fury, to think of the damned tape, get his identity firmly established – 'if I'm not your TYPE, why are you following me? Why did you call me at work? Why were you in that parking-lot?'

He had picked up his jacket which was neatly draped over a chair. He had clearly removed it whilst she was in the shower. He proceeded to meticulously smooth the sleeves. He studiously ignored her glaring at him, ablaze with anger, from the bed.

When he did look at her, his blue eyes were cold, unwavering.

'Force of habit,' he said coolly. He put his jacket on. 'Something to do.'

'What do you mean?' she asked, her forehead crinkled in bemusement.

'YOU are what I do when I'm in Miami Lisa. When I have any free time, that is.'

He was fully dressed, ready to leave. But he leaned back against her bedroom wall, hands plunged firmly into his pockets. He peered at her from behind a blanket of dark tousled hair, which was sticking to his damp forehead.

'I don't understand,' she said, almost tearfully. 'I thought … .'

She was unable to say what she thought. She was completely disarmed – yet again – by this whole situation. She sank slowly on to the bed, her eyes never leaving his face.

He laughed. 'Like I said, I have no desire to kill you Lisa.'

This is good, Lisa thought. She buried her face in her hands. _Carry on Jackson. Carry on._

'And I most certainly have no desire to rape you, or torture you, or any of the bloodthirsty absurdities you've no doubt been thinking.' He paused. 'Killing you would probably be easier actually.'

'But surely your employers, surely they would want you to kill me?' she asked tentatively.

Jackson snorted in derision. 'You really think you're that important Lise?'

He pushed his hair from his eyes, which enabled Lisa to better study his face. He was taunting her, she was sure. But there was something else … something that didn't ring clear and true here. What was it? Jackson didn't like to lie. She believed THAT of him, at least. But he was suddenly uncomfortable – just a tiny quaver of doubt in his frank stare. A warning.

This was the chink she'd been hoping for. Now she had to press home her advantage.

'I'm surprised you're even alive Jackson. Undone by a _girl_.' She snickered. 'That must have hurt.'

His eyes flashed angrily, but he stood stock-still. For an instant he looked like he might respond, but quickly stopped himself.

'I mean, come on Jackson, Keefe was a big fish, a big, brash message, that YOU failed to deliver. Must have upset a lot of people,' she continued, barely able to believe her own audacity. But somehow she wasn't frightened of Jackson. She knew darned well she should be. But not now. Not tonight.

'That's enough now Lisa,' he said softly.

'Don't you want revenge?' she asked, baiting him.

He looked puzzled. 'Why would I want that?'

'I ruined your plans, your, your nasty little plot to kill Keefe and his family?'

He smiled, a dry, withering smile, which disappeared almost the moment it came. 'Revenge is messy. Involves too much …,' he struggled for the right word, then found it. 'Emotion.'

Lisa chilled a little. Maybe she'd been too complacent.

His eyes had iced. His face stiffened.

'However,' he added. 'If I did want _revenge_, as you put it Lise, then I wouldn't kill you, or kill your family, or your pet fucking dog or whatever fucking thing it is you think you're attached to.'

He locked eyes with her.

'No. That's too simple. Too easy.' He leered. 'But I _would_ want to fuck your head up good and proper. Thing is. _I_ don't need to Lise. You're fucked up enough as it is.'

She daren't breathe, mesmerized by his biting words. She looked away, hot tears suddenly stinging her eyelids.

He approached, leaned over her, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

'I'll call you,' he said.

She could feel the tears sliding, uncontrollably down her cheeks. She didn't look up at him, just felt his presence, like a shadow crossing her.

And then he was gone.


	4. Boogie Wonderland

**Author's Note: **Thanks again for the lovely comments. As I said in my former Author's Note, this is my first Fan Fiction, and I hadn't realized before I got going on it, just how much I would appreciate reader encouragement. So thanks again.

So here is Chapter Four. I have already written a first draft of Chapter Five, so hopefully I can get that posted in the not too distant future, although it needs a bit of re-working. Chapter Four first felt like a bit of a 'link' chapter, but it is actually seeded with some very vital information building towards the main thriller plot. And don't worry – Jackson's never far away.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. (Unfortunately).

**CHAPTER FOUR – Boogie Wonderland**

Lisa slept for a few brief hours. When she woke up, she felt drained, aching all over, her right temple throbbing.

By the time she had blinked her eyes open, a whole bunch of confusing sensations were clawing at her insides, as though a swarm of butterflies was dizzying round and round her belly.

What had happened? What had she done? And then she remembered.

JACKSON.

Oh please God, no, she whimpered.

She buried her face in her pillow.

Suddenly the crunching throb of pain which was shooting through her head, sourced it seemed from the dried-out wound on her temple, was nothing compared to her antics – was there really any other word for it? – with THAT man.

She shuddered at the thought, even though she was mindful, startlingly so, that her horror, her shame, was also mingled with a faint swishing swirl of excitement. Her lips still felt tingly, as if swollen from his kisses. She caressed them with her finger, thrilling momentarily.

A burst of anger, of self-disgust ripped through her. She had behaved _abominably_. She _hated _herself. She threw her head into her hands and groaned loudly.

But … at least she'd recorded it all.

She dove under her pillows, searching for the Dictaphone. There it was.

She grabbed it, hit the REWIND button and waited, waited for the audio cassette - recording Jackson's true identity, revealing his involvement in the plot to kill Keefe, his following her - to spool back to the beginning.

Everyone would know, would have to acknowledge, that Jackson Rippner was a reality, not a demon of her own imagining.

She hit PLAY.

First, a hushing and a sighing. The unmistakable sound of kissing. A little muffled perhaps by the pillow, but distinct enough. More distinct still was her breathing, short, gasping breathes, and … Lisa blushed hotly … soft moans of excitement. Just listening to this again, she could feel her heart racing, her insides clenching.

Oh God, she thought. I was really into this. And so was Jackson too, by the sound of it.

Come on girl, she thought. Get talking.

She seemed to take a deep breath, and then she spoke, asking Jackson to stop.

He didn't seem to listen. Or maybe he didn't want to.

She spoke again. She could hear a shrill, panicked tone to her voice. She sounded scared.

And then he did stop. Very abruptly. And actually seemed rather nice about it, all considered.

She chewed her lip thoughtfully.

Now for the big stuff. The slap. And the argument.

It was all there. Every word of it, even though Jackson occasionally sounded a little distant. Unsurprisingly so, as he had moved away from the bed, and stood against the wall, opposite her. She looked up at the blank space where he had been, half-expecting to see him re-materialize, his blue eyes flashing angrily at her.

'You are so screwed Jackson Rippner,' she shouted to the void before her.

Oh hell. What am I doing? She thought, her head throbbing painfully. I'm talking to an empty room.

Then came the nasty bit.

Jackson's voice.

'… But I _would_ want to fuck your head up good and proper. Thing is. _I_ don't need to Lise. You're fucked up enough as it is.'

She flinched. He'd almost spat those words out. She could feel the visceral fury in his voice.

He'd left shortly afterwards.

Silence was soon punctuated by sniffing, then the faint strains of sobbing. Sobbing that got louder and louder. Harder and harder. As though her heart would break.

No wonder her eyes ached and her throat was sore.

She listened in horror. How long had she cried for? This was endless. Embarrassing.

And still she went on.

Lisa rolled her eyes, levered her aching body off the bed, and headed for the bathroom.

XXXXXXXXXX

The first thing she saw was the bloody heap of clothing she had left on the floor.

Had all that happened too? And how had it become so very secondary to what had happened later, in her bedroom? Being attacked by three youths, witnessing the deaths of two of them and being _rescued_ by a cold-blooded killer could hardly be seen as less mentally bruising than her encounter with Jackson.

But somehow it was. Or at least it felt that way.

She'd have to give Miriam a call. There was something definitely unhinged happening inside of her.

Lisa ran a deep, hot bath and flung the clothes into the water, dousing them with a litre of fabric detergent. It was excessive, she knew, but there were three large brown stains. Not to mention the dusting of blood on her couch covers downstairs.

Maybe she should burn them. Have done with it. After all, her visit to Dana's might be linked to a subsequent police investigation, which, for the moment, she wanted to avoid. And somehow, she couldn't imagine Jackson being wholly forthcoming about his involvement in what had happened.

She splashed water on her face, grabbing a hand-towel to quickly dry off.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

There was the cut she'd received from her attackers in the parking lot. She traced her finger along the crusted red line. It didn't hurt too much, and Jackson had done a good job of cleaning it up. A band-aid and she'd be fine. Her hand ran down her cheek, to her neck, to the medley of small blue bruises which had erupted on her throat, and … .

Lisa could hardly believe it. She had a hickey.

So much for her grand destruction of Jackson Rippner's character. If she was to show off what he had done to her, it would look like she had been an active participant. That she had even enjoyed it.

_But you did_, chirruped a small voice inside her head.

Lisa leaned her head heavily against the mirror, her breath steaming up the glass.

She really HAD to see Miriam. Her brain had gone to pieces.

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa hurriedly dressed for work. She had lots to do today. Even more than usual.

_Today was the day she would finally expose Jackson Rippner. _

Except she didn't feel much like celebrating.

Even after two Tylenol and copious glasses of water, she still had a dull pain dinning at her temples.

Now that her Toyota was no more, she'd have to order a cab to get to work. She'd rent a car later and tell her Dad that the Toyota had been involved in an accident. A mysterious hit-and-run in a parking lot.

Well. It was almost true.

She was about to dial her local Cab firm when the phone rang.

It was Cynthia.

XXXXXXXXX

'Lisa! At last. You're here,' Cynthia squealed, dashing up to her the moment she set foot inside the lobby of the Lux Atlantic hotel.

Lisa could barely believe her eyes. She had never seen the hotel so busy. Not at _this_ hour. The lobby was beset by a whirl of frantic activity as a host of bad-tempered, scowling guests lugging suitcases, bemused-looking conference delegates and a host of harassed cleaning staff bearing buckets and mops were whizzing endlessly from reception, to the elevators, to the conference suites, to the staff quarters. A number of burly, uniformed fire officers were milling around the hotel's main entrance. Lisa had to jostle past them to get inside.

XXXXXXXXX

Cynthia hastily ushered Lisa into her office.

'I'm so, so, so glad to see you,' she gabbled.

'Good, Cynthia. Now just tell me what's happened, from start to finish,' Lisa said, placing a calming hand on Cynthia's shoulder, which she noticed was slightly damp. In fact there was a faintly musty air about Cynthia in general, and her hair was lank and lifeless, as though she had been caught short in a sudden shower without an umbrella.

Cynthia relayed the whole story, wringing her hands in anguish throughout.

Just after 6.45am, a fire alarm had sounded on the twenty-first and twenty-second floors. Cynthia, who had just come on duty, immediately instigated an evacuation of the hotel, and summoned the fire department. However, disaster then struck when the heat-sensitive water sprinklers on the 21st and 22nd floors, suddenly burst into life, soaking the guests who had been ordered to gather in the corridors, ready to leave.

Needless to say, they were furious. Mostly everyone had demanded a refund, plus many more were wanting compensation.

'Still, there was some good news,' Cynthia said in her typically buoyant tones. 'The fire department gave us an all-clear – which is when I rang you.'

'So what triggered the sprinklers?' Lisa asked, puzzled.

Cynthia shrugged. 'We don't know. Particularly the sprinklers in the conference suite.'

'The conference suite?' Lisa asked, aghast.

Cynthia sighed. 'It was really, really bad timing. I'd only just authorized the guests who were wet-through in the lobby to use the facilities in the conference suite when, somehow, those sprinklers too were activated …. It was kind of scary actually,' Cynthia breathed, her eyes agog. 'Not as scary as the missile attack, but very creepy. Kind of like the guests were being followed.'

'I don't understand how this could have possibly happened, I really don't,' Lisa said. 'Is Eric in?'

'He was here within minutes.'

'Did … did he suspect foul play?

'If he did, he didn't say so.'

Then why did he come in so quickly? Lisa thought. She smoothed her hands through her hair. She had to think straight. Devise an action plan. _Why today, of all days?_

'OK Cynthia, 'Lisa said, instantly suppressing any panic or fluster which might overtake her with a deep breath. 'First things first. We ensure these guests are as comfortable as possible, which I'm sure you're on to already. As for compensation. I'm thinking refunds for those who ask, dry cleaning costs and three nights' complimentary stay, at any time of their choosing. Got that?'

Cynthia nodded.

'Good. OK. Call in everyone. Call round the agencies. Call staff on leave. Anyone you can get hold of. We need as many hands as we can get to sort this one out.'

'I'll get onto it straightaway.'

'I take it the clean-up op's underway? Actually don't worry about that. I'll speak to housekeeping. And I'd better get the guests up to speed too – that's as soon as I've had a coffee and made a couple of calls.' Lisa smiled reassuringly at Cynthia, who was biting her lip nervously. 'We can sort this out Cynthia. Everything's going to be fine. I promise. And you've done a brilliant job, you really have,' Lisa added generously.

Cynthia was about to leave Lisa's office when she remembered something else.

'I almost forgot. There was a call, just minutes ago, from a Mr Talbot Haynes. He's working with the _Keefe for America_ campaign. Said he'd love you to give him a call sometime today … I left the number on your desk.'

Lisa picked up the note. 'Thanks. I'll call later.'

Cynthia lingered. 'Maybe they want to offer you a job?'

Lisa laughed. 'You really think so? I very much doubt it.'

'Oh I don't know. There's something kind of cool in the idea of the woman who saved the lives of Keefe and his kids, becoming his campaign manager,' Cynthia said, a sly glint in her eye.

'That's very sweet of you Cynthia, but I suspect they just want to stage an event here.' Lisa was copying Talbot Haynes's number into her cell phone. 'But that's not for us to worry about right now.'

Cynthia hastened away, returning moments later with a hot steaming cup of coffee, which Lisa welcomed.

She was already on the phone to Andy in Maintenance.

He couldn't tell her how this incident had happened. At first they'd thought it was a problem connected somehow to the reconstruction work on the 40th floor – still ongoing since the missile strike on Keefe's suite. But now it was looking like a glitch in the system. They just hadn't figured it out yet.

'These things can happen Lisa,' Andy said, sounding exhausted.

The good news was the guest bedrooms were completely unaffected. The carpets and the furnishings in the corridors were saturated, but a team of workers were already on to it with an army of driers. Guests could return to their rooms in approximately fifteen minutes.

That's one less headache, Lisa thought.

Now she had to call Eric.

Eric couldn't talk long, but said he had first feared this was a prelude to an 'action' of some sort.

'So you thought this was malicious?' Lisa asked directly.

'I didn't know what to think Miss Lisa. It seemed kind of sinister at first. But … the folks at Maintenance assure me that there can be overrides in the system. So I guess it was just one of those things. It's all so darned technical these days Miss Lisa. All these computers,' grumbled Eric.

Lisa smiled indulgently.

'One last thing Eric,' she said, trying to maintain a supportive, jocular tone to her voice. 'Did you get my message about the security footage?'

'Sure did Miss Lisa.'

Lisa grimaced at his tone.

'I was hoping to speak with the Police later. About a related matter,' she said. 'I rather hoped you'd come with me.'

There was a long pause. 'You couldn't pick a worse day Miss Lisa.'

'Probably not.'

'But, I tell you what, my son-in-law's a cop. He's gonna be off-duty this afternoon. Why don't I call him in to talk with you?'

Lisa eyed her purse which contained the Dictaphone. Replaying it to just one police officer – and a friendly one at that – would be a lot less embarrassing.

'I really appreciate that Eric,' Lisa said warmly.

XXXXXXXXX

It was the most hectic morning in Lisa's working life.

She had addressed the distinctly damp and discontented guests in the conference suite - a hairy moment, demanding Lisa employ every iota of her diplomatic people-pleasing skills. She had escorted them back to their rooms and then spent the remainder of the morning servicing multiple complaints, organizing cleaning schedules, free breakfasts, staff rotas, staff disputes – most particularly, an ugly row which had broken out between Maintenance and the tech guys who serviced the computer support system.

Lunch was a late bite in her office with Cynthia. Only now did Cynthia notice the large pink band-aid streaked across Lisa's right temple.

'I walked into a door,' Lisa said mutely. She didn't dare look Cynthia in the eyes, but something in Cynthia's silent response told Lisa that her sharp-eyed friend wasn't buying any of it. Lisa was mighty relieved that she'd wound a cream silk scarf around her throat, concealing the bruises … not to mention the hickey. She could come clean, tell the whole story, once Jackson's identity had been verified.

Eric soon arrived with his son-in-law, Officer Kirk Novelli – a stocky chap with leathery tanned skin, twinkling brown eyes and a New York accent. Lisa recalled that Novelli had met Eric's daughter Suzette on vacation. And it had been love at first sight.

He smiled pleasantly, shaking Lisa's hand, then Cynthia's, with friendly gusto.

'Eric tells me you've got some problems Ma'am,' he said, coming straight to the point.

Lisa explained, glad that Cynthia had stayed in the room with her. Eric stood against the door, arms folded, a worried look on his face.

'OK, I'll come clean with you, Miss Lisa,' Novelli said, settling himself onto a chair at Lisa's request. 'I checked out a few little details before I came here today' – he nodded in Eric's direction. 'I'd heard about the case already.'

'The Keefe case,' Lisa said.

'Sure. The Keefe case,' Novelli agreed. 'But you know Ma'am, it's a tough one. This John Doyle character … .'

'Jackson Rippner,' Lisa interjected.

Novelli jutted his lower lip out and nodded slowly. 'As you say Ma'am, but I've no records on file for a Mr Rippner, which ain't giving me much to work with. So I looked instead at this John Doyle.' He shook his head. 'No photo ID, no address. Nothing.'

Lisa furrowed her brow in consternation. 'Doyle was registered as living in Connecticut.'

Novelli shook his head. 'No Ma'am. We've no record of current domicile.'

'Are you sure?'

Novelli shrugged.

'What other information was attached to this file?' Lisa asked.

Novelli pursed his lips regretfully. 'Sorry Ma'am. I'm not authorized to share that information with you.'

Eric coughed, drawing his son-in-law's attention. Novelli looked back at Lisa. 'In truth Ma'am. There's nothing to tell you. The file's empty. Border Patrol picked up those two Russkie guys we reckon fired off that Javelin. But we got nothing out of them.'

'Don't you consider that strange?' Lisa asked.

Yet again Novelli shrugged. 'It's not my place to wonder Ma'am.'

Lisa frowned. 'Well I beg your pardon Officer Novelli, but I've something that might just change your mind.'

She grabbed her purse from her desk and pulled out the Dictaphone. She placed it carefully on the desk. She cleared her throat nervously, her eyes scanning her attentive, albeit bemused audience.

'Last night, Jackson Rippner visited my home. And … I recorded our conversation,' Lisa said, barely able to suppress the note of triumphalism which crept into her voice.

Cynthia looked stunned. 'Is that legal Lisa?' she asked hurriedly, casting a suspicious sidelong glance at Officer Novelli.

Novelli brushed aside Cynthia's comment.

'OK Ma'am. Play us what you got,' he said.

Lisa checked to see the cassette was rewound to the start. Her hands felt clammy, so much so she could hardly hold the Dictaphone.

She wondered if she should fast-forward just a tiny bit. Skip over the first couple of minutes. But that could get complicated. She'd better just _suck it up_, as Jackson had once told her.

The cassette clicked forwards, devoid of sound for the first few seconds. She closed her eyes in fearful anticipation of the soft sighs and moans she had heard, in agonizing clarity, only this morning.

But none came.

She regarded the Dictaphone curiously. Then with increasing anxiety. Had she dropped it? Was it broken?

She was painfully aware of rising impatience from Officer Novelli, even Eric. She didn't dare look at Cynthia, seated quietly on the couch, head bowed.

'It … it worked this morning,' Lisa said, her voice shaking. 'I promise.'

There was a loud click. 'Ah! Here we go,' she said, smiling broadly.

But all they could hear was a loud rhythmic disco-beat, accompanied by a jubilant brass section, which then raced and whirled into a familiar disco dance tune …

'_Dance …. Boogie Wonderland …., Dance …. Boogie Wonderland …._'

What the …. ? What had happened? Where the hell was Jackson?

The track continued.

'_Midnight creeps so slowly into hearts, Of men who need more than they get …._'

Lisa couldn't believe what she was hearing.

'This isn't what I recorded,' she said breathlessly, desperately trying to make herself heard over the music. 'You've got to believe me.'

Eric shook his head sadly, slowly.

'Miss Reisert. Lisa,' he said softly. 'Are you sure you brought the correct audio cassette?'

Lisa nodded vehemently. 'I never once took it out of the machine.'

'Might it be on the other side?' Novelli asked, gesturing to her to flip it over.

'I rewound it.' She didn't dare look at Cynthia.

Novelli shrugged. 'Well I'm sorry Ma'am. All I can hear is disco music. You must have been whispering real quiet.'

Lisa wiped away the tears trickling down her face with her sleeve. She hadn't even noticed she was crying.

Cynthia stepped forwards with a scrunched-up tissue. Her eyes glistening sympathetically.

Lisa took the tissue. She tried to smile. 'There's been a mistake. I … I must have mislaid it.'

She then noted that Novelli's foot was tapping in time to the music.

_'Dance … Boogie Wonderland ..., Dance …. Boogie Wonderland_,' …. came the chorus.

Cheerfully mocking. Horribly catchy.

Even Eric was twitching a little.

Lisa clutched the tissue tightly into a little ball in the palm of her hand.

He'd really got her this time, she thought.

Damn you Jackson Rippner, she mouthed silently. _Damn you._

XXXXXXXXX

Novelli and Eric quickly left Lisa to some 'peace and quiet' – although on Novelli's insistence, not until _Boogie Wonderland_ was actually finished.

'You must think I've gone insane,' Lisa said frankly to Cynthia.

'Not at all,' Cynthia replied dolefully. 'You've been having a really, really tough time. And we all respect that.'

Lisa smiled wanly.

She ejected the cassette. It was the same brand as her own. There was nothing written on the label to indicate that this was a joke of any kind.

Just a ruse to embarrass her. To destroy her credibility for good.

A chilling thought flashed through her mind.

If Jackson had switched it, WHEN had he done so? But of course, it had to be today. This morning. He must have come to the hotel and pulled off some kind of jiggery-pokery … she had no idea how or what … to orchestrate their little disaster. And whilst, she, and everyone else for that matter, was running around like a blue-assed fly, he'd snuck in to her office.

Easy as you like.

His audacity was breath taking, Lisa thought. Somehow she had to put a stop to these nasty little mind-games, which had been plaguing her since … since when? Two, three days ago?

'Lisa. Are you alright?' Cynthia asked, a soft look of enquiry on her face. 'Can I get you anything?'

'Yes, yes you can,' Lisa replied, snapping back into reality. Something had occurred to her. Jackson had told her just last night that he followed her in Miami in 'his free time.' Therefore, he had been doing something else.

And she suddenly knew what it was. Jackson had attended the conference.

'Yes Cynthia. Can you get hold of a copy of the delegate list for the Global Finance conference?'

Cynthia looked puzzled.

'I'll explain later,' Lisa said.

'OK … the thing is, the programs got wet through this morning, you know, when the sprinklers went off … but, don't worry, I'll go hunt one down for you,' Cynthia said brightly, quitting Lisa's office.

Lisa was relieved to be alone. To give full vent to her frustration. She thumped her desk so hard the Dictaphone jumped.

There was something else really bothering her. Something almost too horrible, too humiliating to contemplate.

Jackson must have known all along.

He must have found the Dictaphone BEFORE she came into the bedroom to get it. That explained why he was lying on the bed, his head on the very same pillow which concealed the Dictaphone.

'You bastard,' Lisa said, clenching her fists tightly.

He knew she'd make a play for it. Heck, he probably knew she'd make a play for HIM.

_A means to an end._

He'd played her to perfection.

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa's tirade of thoughts was interrupted by the loud ring of the telephone.

Even before she answered, she knew it was Jackson. Ready to gloat.

'I said I'd call,' he said.

Lisa was shaking with a quiet seething fury at his smug, self-satisfied tones. 'I'm not interested in anything you have to say Jackson Rippner. You can go to hell for all I care.'

'Well that's not very nice now, is it Lise?' he said softly. '… I take it you're not a great fan of _Earth, Wind and Fire_ then? And such a classic track too … .'

'So go on Jackson. Blind me with your brilliance. You know you want to. How did you do it?'

Jackson laughed mirthlessly. 'You know what Lisa. You grossly underestimate the nature of my business, don't you? It's kind of insulting actually.'

'A bit of an over-elaborate distraction just to steal a measly little cassette, don't you think?'

'You know Lise, you really need to beef up your computer security. You're making it far too easy … You're lucky it was me. I've done you a favor,' Jackson said.

Lisa could feel him grinning. Mocking her.

'I hate you,' she said gutturally.

'Oh. That's a shame. I don't hate you,' Jackson said coolly. 'Still. If you want to say it to my face, you're very welcome. I'm in room 3113 … and yes, that _is_ next door to Mr Buckley. Or at least it _was_. He checked out two hours ago.'

Lisa fidgeted aimlessly with a pen on her desk. She caught a glance of her reflection, reflected in a smoked glass vase, bursting with fresh flowers, which someone – she hoped NOT Jackson – had kindly left on her desk this morning.

The last thing she should do was see Jackson. She should just forget about this whole business; put it behind her.

Particularly after last night. Particularly after …. Her hand went to her throat, caressing where he had left his mark on her.

'Lise? Are you still there?' Jackson asked.

But he really wanted to see her, she realized. She could hear the tense eagerness in his voice. And this thought somehow made her smile.

'Have you still got the recording?' she asked.

Jackson hesitated. 'Why? Do you want to listen to it?'

Lisa sighed heavily.

Jackson continued. 'Well, just in case you haven't yet heard it, which I very much doubt, it starts well, very well, but ends tragically. It's kind of heartbreaking actually… .'

Lisa slammed the phone down, grabbed hold of the Dictaphone, and shot out of her office.

Cynthia was trotting rapidly towards her, brandishing the delegate list.

Lisa dashed it from her hands without saying a word and ran to the elevator, clutching it to her chest. She stabbed ferociously at the Call Button.

That was it. She'd had enough. She was going to tell him straight that this 'thing', this game, or whatever it was that was going on between them, had to stop here and now.

XXXXXXXXX

Jackson opened the door to Room 3113 with a melodramatic flourish, instantly standing aside to let her in, a broad grin on his face.

He was smartly dressed in a pristinely tailored black suit, although he wore his shirt open at the neck. Lisa immediately noticed he had slightly dark circles around his eyes as though he was suffering a little from lack of sleep.

Just like her.

Lisa stormed into the room. He slammed the door behind her, brushing the list away.

'How lovely to see you Lise. Can I get you a drink?' he asked, in teasing tones.

She thrust the conference delegate list into his face.

'You've been here, all this time, haven't you?'

Jackson studiously ignored her, while he delved into the mini-bar, extricating a bottle of champagne and two bottles of sparkling mineral water.

'In this room? No.' He held the champagne in one hand, and the water in the other. 'Bubbly either way. What's it to be Lise?'

'From you? Nothing,' Lisa replied in acid tones.

Jackson frowned, though his eyes were twinkling in amusement. He returned the bottles to the mini-bar. 'OK then. What about an Orangina?' he asked, wielding a small, rotund bottle of orangeade and a plastic beaker.

Lisa brushed this aside. 'So how come you're in this room _now_? Have you murdered the former occupant? Can I expect to find a corpse drowned in the bath or stuffed into a wardrobe?'

Jackson laughed. 'You really have a very vivid imagination Lise.' He studied the Orangina mournfully, and then flipped off the lid with a can-opener. 'I simply needed some rest. Too many late nights aren't good for you, you know.'

'So whose room is this?'

Jackson raised his eyebrows, in mock incredulity. 'You're the hotel manager and you don't even know who's staying in your own hotel? … It's a conference room.'

'So you admit you were at the Global Finance conference,' Lisa said.

'I've never denied it,' Jackson replied, his clear blue eyes fixed on her face, which was puckered with irritation. 'But then, you never asked me.'

Lisa sighed. She quickly scanned the delegate list in her hand.

'Well I don't expect you to call yourself Jackson Rippner,' she said.

Jackson leaned against a long sideboard unit, parked against almost the entire length of one wall, and watched Lisa intently, occasionally sipping at the Orangina.

'Nor do I expect you to be so dumb as to register as John Doyle.'

'Maybe I'm not on the list, Lisa?' Jackson said flatly.

'Come to think of it. Why were you at the conference at all? Was it just an excuse to … to taunt me? To make spooky phone calls?'

Jackson laughed, a hard, grating laugh. 'Not everything is about YOU, Lisa. I have other reasons for living, don't you know that?'

'Oh yes, Killing innocent people … ,' Lisa replied tartly.

Jackson was blank-faced in response.

'Which means … but of course!' Lisa exclaimed, stepping closer towards Jackson. 'Someone at the conference is a potential target.'

Jackson drained the rest of the Orangina. 'You don't know what you're talking about Lise.'

But Lisa was back to rifling through the list. 'Who could it be …?'

Jackson tugged the list from her hands, placing it on the sideboard. 'You're wasting your time.'

'What about Ira Gershon?' Lisa mused. 'From what I've heard, he's a whopping big cheese in the world of corporate finance.'

Jackson shook his head disparagingly. 'Give it up Lise.'

'So that's how you knew Mr Buckley? Through the conference,' Lisa asked. 'Or is he an old acquaintance?'

Jackson snorted in derision. 'Hardly.'

'Why then did you use his room to call me?'

'I didn't have a room of my own,' Jackson explained.

'Were you … were you a guest at his little party? With the hookers?'

Jackson sneered furiously. 'No. Absolutely not.'

Lisa couldn't help but admit to herself that his adamancy on this point came as something of a relief. But then if he wasn't _with_ Buckley, how did he get to use his phone?

She paced the room, deep in thought, her every move trailed by Jackson's intense gaze. Then it came to her in a flash.

'But you _did_ pay one of the girls to let you into the room, to use the phone, didn't you?'

'If there's one thing in life you can sure of,' Jackson said. 'It's that whores like money.'

'But why go to such lengths?' Lisa remonstrated. 'Why not just use a payphone?'

'The idea of your steaming up to Mr Buckley's room in a tizzy, demanding answers, was just too irresistible,' Jackson explained nonchalantly.

'What had he done to you?'

Jackson shrugged apathetically. 'Nothing. The guy's a prize dick. I thought he deserved it. Anyway. Can we change the subject Lise? This one's getting kind of stale. Let's talk instead about … our little mixtape.'

Lisa flamed red with anger then slammed the Dictaphone down onto the sideboard next to Jackson. 'Take it,' she hissed.

'Oh good. You brought it,' Jackson said lightly.

'I've no interest in your stupid little stunts. They're not funny or clever. Just _pathetic_,' Lisa said.

He tried to catch Lisa's eye, but she swiftly averted his gaze. He grabbed her arm, holding her still before him, forcing her to make eye contact.

'Well you _should_ take an interest Lise. It's your responsibility. Have you any idea how _easy _it was to hack into your computer systems and wreak so much havoc? It's very dangerous you know.'

'But if you wanted the cassette so badly, why not just put a gun to my head?'

'I was … trying something out. You might even thank me for it one of these days.'

His tone puzzled Lisa. Why would she want to do that?

'Anyway.' Jackson continued blithely. 'You saw for yourself the outstanding success of my little foray into the world of computer hacking.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'Not bad for a beginner.'

'It's nothing to be proud of,' sniffed Lisa.

'Oh but it is. You see I've been honing my skills. Getting up to date. Not only did I manage to breach your fire security systems, but I even sparked something of a slanging match amongst your staff … it took just a few inflammatory little emails.'

Lisa stepped closer towards him. 'Have you any idea about the trouble you've caused?'

Jackson smirked. 'Well. It was a means to an end Lise. I got the tape. And I've got you here too.'

Their eyes locked momentarily. Lisa could feel her cheeks burning with indignation.

'But if last night, you knew, all along, what I … that I ….'

'That you what, _Lise_?' Jackson said smoothly, keeping his eyes firmly trained on Lisa's face.

Unable to sustain eye contact, Lisa broke their mutual gaze, heaving a sigh of exasperation.

'I want that recording,' she said bitterly. 'Not to use against you, I promise … but to destroy it.'

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. 'Well you can't have it Lise. I've gotten kind of attached to it. I want it as a keepsake.'

'What for?' Lisa scoffed.

'To remember you by,' Jackson said, his voice unexpectedly soft.

Lisa was initially disarmed by his sudden change in tone, but soon recovered.

'I don't _need _you, I don't _want_ you to remember me Jackson. I want to forget we ever met,' she said, curling her lip in spite.

Jackson sighed dramatically. 'So much negativity Lise … it's bad for your soul, do you know that?'

'At least I _have_ a soul,' Lisa retorted angrily.


	5. Fierce Man of Bone

**Author's Note:** Finally Chapter Five. This has had many incarnations, as originally it spanned a greater time period, more 'plottage,' so to speak. However, at the risk of being a little self-indulgent, I decided in the end to keep the action in this chapter close to Jackson and Lisa, with one extended scene, most especially as it's an important encounter, for reasons that will become clearer as the story progresses.

Thanks again for the lovely reviews! They really spur me on. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter.

**CHAPTER FIVE – Fierce Man of Bone**

Room 3113 was typical of the standard guest rooms at the Lux Atlantic hotel; reasonably sized, decorated in tasteful corporate beiges, browns and tans with smart wooden furniture and thick carpets.

It was a warm afternoon. Beyond the large steel-framed window, Miami shimmered in the heat. Inside, there was a low droning buzz emitted by the air conditioning system and a slight tang of coolness which pinched the skin.

Lisa shivered involuntarily, cautiously aware of the slender, blue-eyed man watching her every move, an inscrutable expression on his face.

'So you wanted to see me to say goodbye?' Lisa asked.

Oddly Lisa didn't quite know what she felt at this information … most odd being the simple fact that she wasn't instantly overjoyed. Sure, there was relief, even pleasure to some degree. But this was tempered too by an unsettling sense of glumness which gnawed at Lisa's insides. Perhaps, deep down, she even enjoyed their highly charged exchanges, the tense unpredictability, so far removed from the safe daily humdrum she had scrupulously constructed as her daily life?

Lisa watched Jackson as he gulped back the rest of his Orangina. He then moved across the room towards the window, where there was a trashcan. He didn't appear to be in a hurry to reply any time soon.

He flipped open a briefcase, placed on a side table.

He rummaged its contents, his back to her.

A faint tremor of alarm struck her with enough force to slightly wind her. What if he wanted the tape as a keepsake, not because he was going away, but because he had lured her to this room with the sole purpose of finally killing her?

Thus the tape would be his trophy.

But Jackson didn't produce a knife or a gun – some dreaded means to kill her. Instead, Jackson plucked a sheet of paper from his briefcase which he presented to her, a sullen, businesslike expression on his face.

She quickly scanned what he had written, although her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the briefcase, which remained open.

Which was how Lisa spotted a tape, _their_ tape, perched inside.

She was so enthralled at this sighting she hardly heard Jackson's explanation of the handwritten instructions, squiggles and numbers which coated the paper she was now holding.

'This is how I did it,' Jackson said.

'Did what?' Lisa asked, distracted.

'Hacked into your computer systems,' Jackson explained.

'Oh. Thanks,' Lisa said, all the while wondering how she could cross the room to the briefcase, seize the tape and make a dash for it. But she felt powerless to move, seemingly rooted to the spot by his cold blue-eyed gaze.

'Well. Seeing as I've a little time to kill,' Jackson said, a wide taunting grin on his face, 'maybe we should go out, grab a Seabreeze or two? Then … we can negotiate about … the tape.'

Now he, in turn, flicked his eyes towards the open briefcase.

'Why … why don't we just have a drink here?' Lisa asked in tremulous tones.

A bemused expression swept across Jackson's face. 'But when I offered before, you flat refused?'

'I've changed my mind. I want a glass of Champagne,' she said.

Jackson removed the bottle of champagne from the mini-bar, and with nonchalant ease, he opened it, pouring champagne into two plastic beakers.

'Sorry – that's all I have,' he said, passing a beaker of champagne to Lisa.

She had to act now, Lisa thought with sudden boldness.

She surged forwards, tossing the champagne into Jackson's face, catching him unawares. He fell heavily against the sideboard.

Meanwhile, she threw herself at the case, but Jackson had already recovered his footing and beat her to it, forcing her backwards. He gripped her arm and pulled her roughly towards him, clutching her into a tight embrace.

Lisa thrust a hand into his hair and yanked hard. With her other hand she grabbed hold of the Dictaphone and smashed it into his chin. She then tried to force her knee into his groin, but he batted it away with his own.

To her surprise, Jackson burst out laughing.

He pinned both her arms to her side. She tottered and fell against his body, her face suffused with crimson rage.

'Is this little display meant to frighten me Lise?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Because it's having quite the opposite effect.'

She then tried to head-butt him, but he veered backwards.

'That's _so_ unoriginal,' he said dryly. 'And remarkably silly too.'

He stood up straight. Champagne was dripping from his hair, before dribbling down his face, onto his neck and shirt. He gruffly wiped away the champagne with his sleeve, but couldn't prevent the wet stain that soaked his shirt.

'And guess what? All negotiations have just been canceled,' he said peevishly.

Then in one sudden, swift movement, he hurled her against the sideboard, pressing himself against her. Lisa struggled, kicking him sharply in the shin. Jackson grimaced in pain, but still managed to restrain her.

'Well, if we're going to play _this_ game, and you seem determined that we are,' he said breathlessly. 'We might as well have a little musical accompaniment. What do you think?'

Keeping her squeezed against the wall with one arm, he reached out for the Dictaphone, which Lisa had dropped after whacking him in the face, and pressed PLAY.

To Lisa's surprise, the poppy disco beats of _Boogie Wonderland_ had switched to a much more serious, slightly solemn piece of Classical music - a blend of violins, staccato and angry, then subdued, climbing higher and higher, before tumbling, then rising.

Jackson grimaced. 'I have very Catholic tastes,' he said. 'But if you're not much of a Schubert fan, we can always flip to the B-side.'

Lisa sighed. 'I don't care Jackson. Whatever.'

The violins seemed to saunter along, seemingly relaxed, underscored by a deeply, resonant cello.

Jackson looked irritated. He stabbed the FORWARD button.

'Let's move onto the second movement, shall we Lise?'

He had subtly relaxed his hold on her, and they were now standing a few inches apart, although Lisa could still sense the warmth emanating from him, almost as though he was still pressed tightly against her.

He stopped the tape, pressed PLAY, listened for a moment, then hit FORWARD again.

'I'm not in the mood for a musical masterclass,' Lisa groaned. 'I've got a job to get back to, and you've got … .'

'I've got _you_. Here.' Jackson said, beaming. 'For now.'

He pressed PLAY.

The violins were still playing in harmony. To Lisa, they resembled a sombre organ playing in a dimly lit church.

The violins then lifted, lightening in tone, becoming almost skittish, chasing each other, up and down the scales. Then a glorious soaring melody took over, the violins still weaving in and out, up and down, loud then soft, almost as though they were conversing, or arguing.

Jackson's voice came as something of an interruption.

'This reminds me of you of course, Lise.' He sniffed. 'But you won't like the title.'

'Why's that?'

'It's kind of morbid.' Jackson edged a little closer, adding in a low whisper. '_Death and the Maiden_.'

'Oh. That's cheerful,' Lisa said drolly, inwardly chilling. He was right. She _didn't_ like the title.

'Yes. It's very sad. But kind of rousing too, isn't it Lise?' Jackson was clearly enjoying himself, a fact Lisa failed to relish, once again attempting to wriggle herself free, but his arms were outstretched, palms against the wall behind her, ensuring she was effectively imprisoned.

'Of course the title's self-explanatory,' Jackson mused, a sly, teasing smile on his face. 'And this particular movement is based on a Schubert song.'

'I don't want to know about any stupid song,' Lisa snapped.

'I wasn't going to sing it to you Lise,' Jackson chortled. 'Singing's not my thing. I prefer other means of torture.'

Lisa crossed her arms tightly, and stared hopelessly at their feet.

'So, let me see. How does it go? Well, you have the Maiden, and she says … and you have to excuse the poor translation, the original's in German … she says something like, Pass by, Oh, pass by, Go away, Fierce Man of Bone. I am still young, go my love, And do not touch me.' Jackson paused. 'I think you can probably guess the identity of the Fierce Man of Bone?

Lisa was momentarily stilled. Mesmerized in part by the music, in part by Jackson's glacial blue eyes. Did he mean _himself_? Was _she _the maiden?

'It's kind of creepy,' she said.

Jackson's face clouded. Then he gently, almost absently, caressed her cheek.

Lisa instinctively flinched.

'What's creepy? The music? Or do you mean Death?'

Lisa nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.

The music continued to dance between deep, tense and sonorous, before trilling into a rising, pulsing melody.

Lisa shuddered.

'It's OK Lise. It's not so bad. Death then says; Give me your hand, you beautiful and delicate form.' Jackson grimaced. 'Like I said, it doesn't quite work in translation … Anyway, he continues …. .' Jackson now edged so close to Lisa, he almost enveloped her body with his own. 'I am a friend, and am not come to punish. Be of good cheer! I am not savage. You … will sleep softly in my arms.'

Lisa pondered this for a moment, aware that her heart was beating at a furiously fast rate. 'That's … that's a good thing then?' she stammered. 'He … he doesn't kill her. Death doesn't kill her.'

Jackson looked doubtful. 'Well, I'm not so sure about that Lise.'

'But he says he's not savage … he lets her sleep.'

Jackson now even wore a look of faint regret on his face.

'No. No. I get it,' Lisa continued in hushed tones. 'He kills her.'

'I guess so. He just can't help himself.'

'And this reminds you of me?' Lisa shrieked, almost hysterically. _What the hell was he trying to say to her?_

Lisa violently pummeled Jackson's gut with her fists and then scooted the Dictaphone to the floor, where it ground to an instant, almost deafening halt.

'I hate it. And I hate you. And I hate your stupid, fucked-up little mind-games!' she screeched.

To Lisa's profound irritation, Jackson was again, laughing at her, even while absent –mindedly rubbing his abdomen. He moved towards his briefcase.

'OK Lise. So you clearly don't appreciate the glories of _Herr _Schubert,' he said disapprovingly. Then as a murmured aside, '… and you say _I've_ got no soul.'

He held aloft the tape she had last seen balanced on top of the case's contents, enjoying the rapt, greedy expression on Lisa's face.

He playfully held out the tape for her. But the moment she tried to grab it, he instantly retracted his hand.

'You want to hear this instead?' he grinned. 'Want to hear _us_? Because I should warn you Lise, it's very sexy stuff. In fact, it's positively embarrassing how many times I've listened to it this morning.'

'No Jackson, don't,' Lisa pleaded.

Jackson's face darkened. 'Well. I suppose you _do_ go and ruin it all,' he said, throwing the tape back into his briefcase, which was gaping open.

He checked his watch, snatched a sleek, black wash bag from the briefcase, then moved rapidly towards the bathroom unbuttoning his shirt as he walked.

'Seeing as I'm soaked in champagne and reeking of alcohol, you'll have to excuse me for one minute,' Jackson mumbled.

Lisa heard the shower burst into action.

He immediately returned, unbuttoning his cuffs. His shirt was now fully open.

'Don't do anything stupid,' he said warily.

Lisa was dumbstruck by her good fortune. _How could he be so foolish?_

As soon as she could hear that he was in the shower, Lisa hastened over to the open briefcase. There, nestling amongst the folds of a spare shirt was the tape.

She could just take it. Steal it. And get out of Room 3113 as fast as her legs could carry her.

However, her eyes couldn't help but be drawn instead to what was beside it.

A passport.

Steeling herself with a swift sidelong glance at the open bathroom door, Lisa picked it up. She could still hear the shower water drumming loudly in the background.

With burning curiosity she flicked the passport open, hardly daring to breathe.

So who exactly was he?

_Not_ Jackson Rippner, according to the photo ID. But a 'James Ryder'. She studied the photo. It was definitely Jackson. No mistaking that.

The passport seemed genuine. Although … and this was odd. It was a non-fee passport. As a hotel manager she'd had plentiful experience of every form of passport from every country worldwide. And this was issued mainly to US government personnel, or at least those working on the government's behalf – diplomatic attaches, business emissaries.

She flicked it open. There were a few military stamps dotted here and there. Lots of visits to Guam she noticed. The pages were clotted with stamps of every hue and complexion it seemed. Jackson, or James according to his passport, was a very regular traveler.

Could she trace his life, his work from these destinations? A few, more regular stamps caught her eye. Karachi … that was Pakistan. London. Lots of London, distributed throughout. Moscow. Minsk. Baku … where the hell was Baku? Singapore. Bangkok. Hanoi. Vientaine, which she guessed was Far Eastern too. And Mogando. Just last week.

But why was the passport non-fee? And was this a false identity? He was an assassin after all. Maybe there were more passports. More names. More places.

She ferreted through the briefcase, overturning the shirt. There was a book, which she flung aside. An anti-perspirant. A leather-bound pad. And yes. Another passport.

At first, she didn't notice that Jackson was back in the room. He was wearing a hotel issue pale blue towel, wrapped around his lower body.

He regarded her ruefully.

'You know what Lisa, I did warn you. You really shouldn't go looking at things that don't concern you,' he said in hard, brittle tones.

Lisa froze. She automatically moved backwards, away from the briefcase, even though Jackson remained stock-still in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. Her eyes scanned across his chest, noting multiple scars – amongst them the two gunshot wounds he had incurred whilst terrorizing herself and her father.

She was still holding the non-fee passport which suddenly felt very heavy in her hands, which were shaking.

He moved forwards, a few inches, one hand outstretched. His intense, blue eyes never left her face. Even as she flipped shut the passport, she could feel his stare burning into her.

'You … you like to visit Guam,' she said with a pretense at a half-smile.

Jackson sneered. 'I loathe the place.'

'And London … England … have you … have you friends, family there?'

She had never been so frightened of him, as she was in that moment, as he stood there, blue eyes blazing, wet chest gleaming, his dark hair matted and still dripping from the shower.

But there was something regretful in his expression too, which perhaps mitigated any immediate disaster.

At least she hoped so.

She carefully placed the passport back in the briefcase.

'If you're that worried about it Jackson, you really shouldn't leave something so important just lying about,' she said coolly, desperately steadying her voice, although she was quaking inside.

Jackson finally spoke. 'We all make rudimentary errors from time to time.' He stepped forwards, closing the space between them so quickly, Lisa tripped backwards, crashing into a bedside table.

'Including you Lisa,' he added. His hand clutched at her arm, pulling her away from the table. He then twisted the arm with considerable violence behind her back, drawing her close to him, so close her back was against his wet chest, her head resting on his shoulder. She tried to crane her neck so that she could see his face, which was next to hers. Her cheeks were grazed by the light stubble on his chin.

He bent his head even closer so that he could speak directly into her ear.

'You might not believe me when I say this, but I really, really didn't want to kill you Lisa. But. You might just force my hand.'

'I didn't meant to look Jackson,' she pleaded.

His free arm had now encircled her from the front, but his movement ensured the arm he still held and had fixed uncomfortably to her back, was rocked painfully at its joints.

'But you did look Lisa, didn't you? You simply couldn't help yourself,' he sneered.

Lisa could feel his body tense, as if set to explode into an act of great violence.

She frantically tried to free herself from his grasp, but he fought against her efforts, tightening his grip.

Suddenly the Fierce Man of Bone had never seemed so real.

'Please. Jackson. Don't,' she whimpered, squirming herself into a new position, so that she was facing him instead, his arms clasped tightly around her.

His hold on her instantly relaxed. If anything he seemed to recoil, taken aback by this sudden face-to-face proximity.

'I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry,' she said. Instinctively she slid her arms around him, falling against his chest, too afraid to look up at him, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

_Better to play dumb. Docile._

To her surprise, his arms fell loosely to his side. He was trembling, his heart pumping maniacally.

Lisa noted, almost as an extraneous thought, an aside, that it clearly took a lot of adrenaline to want to kill somebody.

Then to Lisa's surprise, Jackson's hand lightly stroked her hair.

'You're a liability,' he said softly.

Lisa shut her eyes tightly, shocked at the flutter of excitement, surprise, relief, which tingled through her.

But no sooner had she relaxed, than he grasped her shoulders with his hands, aggressively thrusting her aside.

'I hate liabilities,' he hissed, his mouth hard and cruel.

From out of nowhere, he swung at her.

Lisa stumbled and fell, crumpling to the floor, aware only of a painful ringing in her ears. Her hand instantly went to the site of the cut above her right ear, which he himself had tended. He had caught the wound with the full force of his knuckles. The band-aid was hanging loose. Blood was streaming down her cheeks, her neck.

Still kneeling on the floor, with trembling fingers, she frantically scrabbled to unbutton and remove her white blouse, to ensure the blood did not stain her collar. Aware throughout that he was standing directly above her, staring down. Ominously silent.

Say something Jackson, she pleaded silently. _Don't just stand there._

He moved away. She could hear him entering the bathroom. She peered at him, over the bed. He was quick and efficient, grabbing a towel, a small blue first aid box.

He gestured to her to sit on the bed.

His clear blue eyes seemed veiled, reluctant to meet her own, which were intent on searching his face for clues, anything, which could determine how he was feeling at that moment. Second-guessing what he might do next.

Lisa wondered if his offer of medical assistance was a strange attempt at an apology.

'God help your future wife,' she muttered, seating herself on the edge of the bed. 'Unless she's a sucker for domestic abuse, that is.'

He was intent on perusing the contents of his first aid box. He alighted on a small sewing kit sealed in cellophane.

'How do you know I'm not already married?' Jackson said, a small smile on his face. He crouched on his haunches before her, his arms resting on his knees.

Lisa's stomach flipped over. Jackson married? The thought had simply never occurred to her.

'But … but … you don't wear a ring,' she stuttered.

Puzzled glee flashed momentarily across his eyes. 'And why should I?'

'Because … because. Well.' She took a deep breath. 'Last night … .' Lisa could feel her cheeks burning red with shame.

Jackson chuckled. 'Your naiveté is really rather touching Lise.'

Lisa's embarrassment deepened.

'Anyway. _You_ kissed _me_, remember?' he said.

'You were hardly an innocent bystander,' Lisa snarled, through gritted teeth. 'If you were married, or, or if you loved somebody, you wouldn't sink to that level to ... .'

Jackson frowned. 'Aww Lise. You're not _that_ bad, you know.' He unwrapped a moist antiseptic towel from its wrapper. 'You're really rather pretty.'

The corners of his mouth were twitching in amusement. Then his eyes trailed slowly downwards, over her bare neck and her throat, lingering momentarily at her scar, then to her bra and belly. 'I've had harder things to do in my life,' he said in low tones, his voice thick with meaning.

Lisa snatched the towel Jackson had brought into the bedroom from the bathroom, and wrapped it closely around her body, to deter his unnerving gaze.

'You disgust me,' she said bitterly.

He shook his head, smiling. 'Don't worry Lisa. Your secret's safe with me.'

'What secret?'

His fingers lightly touched the hickey on her neck. 'That, however much you deny yourself, you're a very sexual woman.'

Lisa clutched the towel tighter around her, speechless with fury.

In one swift swoop, Jackson tilted her head forwards with one hand. His other hand deftly wiped away the fresh flow of blood from her wound, then pressed directly onto the cut, to staunch the blood. Lisa baulked at the pain.

'Stay still,' he grunted.

'You've no right to say that about me,' she said, glad that her head was turned away from his. Instead she stared into the bathroom.

'I have every right,' he murmured.

''I was doing a job too you know,' she said in harsh, angry tones.

'Which makes you … well, exactly what does that make you Lise?' Jackson said, his voice cold and taunting. 'I mean. I can be honest about this. I'd fucking do you in a flash.' He paused. 'Wife or no wife.'

Lisa slapped his hand away. 'How dare you!'

She stared at him, her eyes fiery with resentment.

He grinned, showing her the bloody swab. 'I was done anyway.'

Ignoring her, he methodically started to unwrap the sewing kit.

'What are you doing _now_?' Lisa cried in alarm.

Jackson looked perplexed. 'What's it look like? I've got to stitch this cut. Stop it opening up again.'

Lisa launched backwards, onto the bed, far away from Jackson. 'No way are you sticking that needle into me,' she said, eyes wide with apprehension.

Jackson laughed. 'You're not being a scaredy-cat are you Lise?'

He stood up, threading the needle with surprisingly deft expertise, Lisa thought, with the aid of the natural light which was streaming in through the window. He moved over to a small table where there was an ashtray and a box of hotel issue matches. He lit a match, using it to sterilize the needle.

Lisa tried to peel her eyes away from his torso. She noted that he was leanly built and compact, his muscles softly rippling as he moved. His skin was smooth and taut, illuminated by the bright light from outside. His cleanly sculpted face, framed by tousled, dark hair, was washed white in the glare. In contrast, his full-lipped mouth was stained blood red.

He chewed his bottom lip, frowning in concentration.

It seemed such a shame, Lisa thought, that something so natural, so undeniable as this man's physical beauty concealed such a deeply malignant nature.

She jumped, startled by his sudden return to the bed, and by the intense expression in his cold, blue eyes.

He moved onto the bed, kneeling directly in front of her.

Lisa was overwhelmingly aware of his battle-scarred chest, the curve and strain of the tendons in his neck, the softness of his throat, and the jagged scar at its base where she had once stabbed him.

With astonishing gentleness he held her face in one hand, to hold her steady. His fingers felt warm, almost burning through her skin.

Her eyes traveled upwards, from his throat to his mouth, which was pouting with concentration as he aimed the needle for the wound on the right side of her head. He shuffled closer to her, so close his chest was almost touching her. So close she was swamped by his scent, his natural, earthy body scent.

Jackson attacked the wound with the needle. There was a light stinging, then a repeated drawing sensation as he quickly proceeded to suture the wound.

Lisa gasped in shock.

He paused momentarily, then continued. But, in an effort to soothe her, his other hand slowly, softly massaged her throat, her chin.

'Nearly done,' he breathed.

Suddenly he moved even closer, his skin gliding softly against hers. His left hand, which had been delicately caressing her face and throat, slid round to the back of her neck, easing her forwards, so that her face was buried into the warmth of his chest. His cheek brushed against hers, and she felt his lips, hot and wet, against her temple, followed by a sharp tug, at the site of her wound, where he bit the thread.

He drew his face back, but not his upper body, which remained tightly compressed against hers, one hand still supporting the back of her neck, tenderly rubbing her.

She slowly lifted her head away from his chest.

'Why's everything so darned physical with you?' she asked, haltingly.

He smiled. 'Ah, but you know nothing about me Lise.'

He brusquely stabbed the needle and thread into the mattress, then gently touched the freshly stitched wound, before stroking her hair away from her face.

'For instance, you know nothing of my passionate interest in obscure French philosophy.'

'Don't be ridiculous,' she tittered.

Jackson retreated back onto his haunches. He crossed his hands onto his lap. 'I didn't see you as a prejudiced sort Lisa. Killers don't have to be mindless fools you know.'

Lisa wondered momentarily if he was serious. His eyes were bright and bantering, but there was something else, something melancholy, in what he said, how he said it.

Suddenly, there was a loud thumping on the door.

Both of them jumped in fright.

Jackson instantly leaped from the bed, throwing Lisa's blouse at her.

'Quick. Put this on,' he said.

He sped into the bathroom.

She hurriedly dressed, her heart racing wildly. What was this urgency that had gripped him? Gripped her? Fear? Guilt?

Jackson re-emerged, pulling a thin black polo-neck sweater over his head as he walked. He was wearing black pants, which were still open at the flies.

Jackson gestured to Lisa to get into the bathroom. She was about to question why, when his finger darted to his lips, in an effort to silence her.

She took the hint, rushing into the bathroom. He closed the door behind her.

Alone, she listened intently for any sounds, any voices beyond the door. Maybe it was just room service? Or Maintenance, checking out the fire security systems? After all, she _had_ asked them to perform a full systems check.

She could faintly hear Jackson open the door. There was a hushed burble of voices, and then the door closed. There was his voice, and another male voice, a deeper baritone who seemed to be doing most of the talking. Was it her imagination, or was this a tense exchange, judging by their occasionally raised intonations?

Lisa had her ear pressed so firmly against the bathroom door, she didn't notice that the floor was slippery from Jackson's shower. She lost her footing, and slipped heavily. She hauled herself off the floor, desperately clutching at the lavatory to steady herself.

She held her breath, aware that there was suddenly silence beyond the door. Had they heard her?

Jackson, she realized, had cracked a joke, because the baritone suddenly erupted into loud guffaws of laughter. Jackson followed this with what sounded like a farewell of some sort. The voices were moving away. Jackson had opened the door. The baritone was still rumbling on, punctuated by Jackson's brief interjections.

Lisa smiled. Even from here. Even though she couldn't make out the shape and content of their conversation, only the tone, she could still sense Jackson's growing impatience.

Finally the door closed. Lisa melted in relief.

Jackson immediately released her from the bathroom. He ignored her inquiring face, busying himself with ensuring all the contents of his briefcase were secured, before locking it shut.

'I'd better get back to work,' Lisa mumbled.

Jackson's face had become hard, impenetrable. She recognized with a cold shudder that this was his professional face, the face of the man she feared most.

Yet even while thinking this, it occurred to her that there was another Jackson too, who wore a different face; not even the slightly goofy, artlessly smooth charmer she had first met at Dallas airport, who now seemed to her a mere hologram, something elusive, shimmering, insubstantial. The reality was different, but somehow more intriguing; someone altogether more complex, a tangible, three-dimensional man, of whom she had only caught the tiniest glimpses.

All sympathetic feeling was swiftly brushed aside as Jackson roughly pushed past her to get into the bathroom where he grabbed his wash bag and the bundle of clothes he had removed to shower. He caught sight of her face in the mirror. Lisa cringed when she saw that his eyes had emptied of all warmth, all feeling … she must have been imagining things.

'You'd best stay here. Wait till I'm gone.' Jackson quickly checked his hair in the mirror, smoothing it flat with his palms. 'And don't try to follow. I'm about to disappear,' he added.

He turned round. 'Cheer up,' he said coldly. 'You've got a face like a wet weekend.'

He barged past her again. He removed a small leather suitcase from the luggage rack. He opened it, placing the wash bag and the clothes inside, then in one slick movement he zipped the case shut.

He scanned the bedclothes, seeking the needle he'd used to stitch Lisa's wound. He plucked it from the bed covers, placing it on the bedside table. He put Lisa's bloody swab into the trashcan.

An ideal guest, Lisa mused. And so like Jackson Rippner. Dapper. Meticulous. Emotionally frigid.

He was ready to go. Except …

'You've forgotten your shoes,' Lisa said, pointing at his feet, which looked strangely naked in gray socks alone.

Jackson's face darkened. 'Don't be so fucking stupid,' he spat out.

He grabbed his shoes, which were parked underneath the bed, and with his back to Lisa, he sat down and leaned over to put them on.

He stood up, grabbed his bags and moved towards the door. He paused, turning to her.

'Well Lisa. I won't be bothering you again,' he said.

Lisa wanted to say something, anything, which demonstrated her happiness at this situation, but she felt frozen, oddly perturbed by the finality of his tone.

There was something amiss.

Jackson looked irritated. 'You could at least smile,' he said.

Lisa flashed him a deliberately false smile. She folded her arms tight against her chest.

'Anyway. I can't say I'll miss you. You're a nice enough girl Lisa, but frankly, you're exhausting,' Jackson added with a grimace.

'You're lying,' Lisa said impetuously.

'I don't lie,' Jackson said.

'Yes you do. Your entire life's a lie. A cold, miserable, pathetic lie.'

Jackson's eyes burned dangerously. A muscle twitched angrily in his cheek.

Lisa took a sharp intake of breath, her eyes round as saucers. Had she finally gone too far?

To her relief, Jackson snapped his eyes away from her searching gaze and opened the door. 'Goodbye Lisa,' he said, and he was gone.

Lisa briefly wondered if she should quickly call Eric, order security to stop him before he left the hotel. But the mere thought fatigued her.

Now he'd gone. Now that he'd left her life, for good it seemed, she waited for the resultant surge of relief.

But it didn't come.

She stumbled to the bed, collapsing heavily onto it. She slumped diagonally, limbs splayed in all directions, and shut her eyes tightly.

Minutes passed.

The minutes stretched to an hour. She was still unable to get up, pull herself together, get back to the business of everyday life, of running this hotel.

Yes. He was right. It, they, this whole crazy encounter, was utterly exhausting. She should be glad it was all over. That she had survived.

Yet everything felt so …. Unresolved.

Sure. Jackson was still at large. He was still deadly. Still likely to kill her, if the whim so took him. That was the material point.

Like the Fierce Man of Bone, maybe he wouldn't be able to help himself.

But she was curious too. More than curious.

She still badly wanted to know who he _really_ was.

One thing was for certain; Jackson wasn't just a cheap gun for hire, a Mafiosi-style henchman. There was more, much more to learn. Of that she was sure.

And he'd inadvertently given her a major clue. Gordon Buckley, the former occupant of Room 3111, had attended the Global Finance conference, and he had clearly met Jackson there. Perhaps Buckley would be able to recall exactly _how_ he had met Jackson. Was Jackson representing someone, some company? Or was he simply a freewheeling delegate, feigning interest in Buckley's affairs? And if so, why?

One thing was certain. Tomorrow she would be visiting Mr Buckley. She would try to extract the truth, muster as much information as possible, and then _she_, Lisa Reisert, would track down Jackson Rippner.

The stalked would become the stalker.


	6. In Hot Pursuit

**Authors's Note:**

Another long chapter. I think I've majorly under-estimated the scale and scope of my story. I think this might be a novel!

Anyway, all that really matters is that you, the readers, are enjoying it, as much as I am writing it. Again, thanks for all the wonderful reviews. It is SO appreciated. It really is.

This chapter is an important one. It's packed full with lots of what one reviewer aptly called 'stitches' – but please, be warned, don't think the mystery's solved by the end of this chapter. Far from it!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing

**CHAPTER SIX – In Hot Pursuit**

Heavy slurrying rain and dark threatening skies had slowed traffic considerably on Interstate-75. What Lisa had hoped would be little more than a pleasant three hour drive to Sunny Springs, in Sarasota County, to see Mr Gordon Buckley, looked like it might take much longer, jeopardizing her hopes to be back in Miami by nightfall.

She grimaced at the ineffectiveness of her wipers, barely able to cope with the torrential downpour pounding her car, streaming across her windscreen in thick flowing rivulets.

She had to pull over. Take a break.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa huddled over a hot cup of coffee in a roadside diner, drenched through from walking just the short distance from the parking lot.

She thought through her plans for the day.

As a private guest, Buckley had submitted his address on registration at the hotel, and a quick phone call to his residence yesterday evening had confirmed that he would be home. Lisa had spoken to a polite woman with a Cuban accent, who she figured was likely to be Buckley's housekeeper, judging by her deferential manner when referring to him.

Lisa then approached Eric, requesting a printout of the screenshot of Jackson, as caught on the hotel's security cameras. Eric seemed disapproving and curious.

In a misguided bid to deflect any awkward questions, Lisa told Eric that her Toyota had been stolen. Much alarmed, Eric urged her to make a formal police statement, as soon as possible, which she naturally agreed to do.

After all, this was an insurance matter. She couldn't continue to live off car rentals and cabs.

However, her primary task, right now, was to glean as much information as possible from Gordon Buckley about how he had met Jackson.

She flipped open a clear plastic folder and gazed sternly at the printout of Jackson's image.

Surely Buckley would remember him? Jackson had such striking, unforgettable features. His eyes alone … .

She drained her coffee. Best to hit the road again. The rain was easing.

XXXXXXXXXX

Two hours later, her cell phone's persistent beeping forced her to make another unscheduled stop at a rest area, abutting flat green fields.

Cynthia had left a message. Mr Talbot Haynes from the _Keefe For America_ campaign had called, yet again.

Lisa had intended to call Haynes yesterday, but amidst everything else, she had clean forgot. Hardly surprising really, after her 'encounter' with Jackson in Room 3113.

Fortunately she had stored Haynes's number in her cell phone.

What could he want that was so very urgent? Lisa wondered.

Haynes answered promptly.

'Mr Haynes,' Lisa said brightly. 'My name's Lisa Reisert, manager of the Lux Atlantic Hotel in Miami. You called me … .'

'Hey there, Lisa!' Haynes bellowed. 'Cool you could get back so soon. I understand you've had some troubles.'

'Yes, yes. We have,' Lisa said, quickly realizing he was referring to yesterday's catastrophe at the hotel with the water sprinklers. 'But everything's under control now.'

'I'm sure it is, Lisa, I'm sure it is.'

Lisa frowned. There was something a little too familiar, too smarmy in Haynes's manner, for her liking.

Haynes giggled. 'Well, I'd best introduce myself. I'm Charles Keefe's aide and campaign adviser. And you know what, Lisa. I've heard plenty of good things about you. Charles reckons you're the darnedest little lady. The finest manager he's ever come across.'

Lisa somehow _didn't_ think Charles Keefe had quite expressed himself in that manner. But it was nice to learn he had a high opinion of her. He'd always been consistently charming, sincere and friendly.

'In fact, Lisa,' Haynes continued, 'Charles would like _you_ to climb on board his campaign for the White House.'

Even though she had never seen Haynes, Lisa summoned up an image of a portly, ruddy-cheeked man, in early middle age, grinning inanely.

Strangely, it wasn't an image she warmed to. Even though Cynthia's predictions that the Keefe campaign might want to offer her a job were clearly on the money.

'That's … that's very flattering,' Lisa said cautiously.

'You bet it is!' Haynes retorted. 'Let me tell you Lisa, it's a privilege and an honor to serve that man.'

Lisa tried to thrill to Haynes's words. He was undoubtedly right. Keefe was a great guy, a truly honest politician – which was increasingly rare these days – with a large, dynamic support base.

She didn't take too great an interest in current affairs. Heck, she hadn't the time to. But she was well-aware that pundits and ordinary folks too, were in agreement, that Keefe had a fine chance of scooping the nomination for his party in the upcoming primaries and had a strong shot at winning the White House the following year.

Working with Keefe would be an incredible, once in a lifetime opportunity. One surely not to be missed.

Except. She rather liked being a hotel manager. And as things stood right now … .

But what was she thinking?

'Keefe's a good man,' she said, rather solemnly.

'So you're up for it?' Haynes asked eagerly.

'Is this a formal job offer?' Lisa replied, incredulous.

'Not wholly Lisa. At least not yet,' Haynes said. 'More of an invitation to come and speak with the team some time soon. See where your interests lie. Check us out.'

Lisa smirked. 'I thought you were wanting to book a campaign dinner at the hotel.'

'Hey, we can do that!' Haynes said, gushing with enthusiasm. 'We can officially welcome you onto the campaign, in the same place where Charles and his beloved family survived that terrible attack … could be quite a media coup that Lisa. Kind of symbolic, don't you think? Smart thinking.'

'I didn't mean it like that.'

Geez, maybe she _should_ work for Keefe. He deserved a lot better than this _goon_.

Haynes continued. 'So I'm thinking you drop by and see us some time. How are you fixed for late next week?'

Lisa was, as always, due vacation.

'We'll pay for your flights, a couple of days in a hotel, all expenses covered,' Haynes said.

'Where's the meeting?' Lisa asked.

'New York, Lisa. We'll meet you in New York,' Haynes said curtly.

XXXXXXXXXX

New York might be fun, Lisa thought, once she was driving again.

The skies had brightened considerably, and the traffic was easing a little as she passed Punta Gorda, heading towards Venice. Pretty soon, according to the map, she would have to get off the highway, and follow the signs for Sunny Springs.

She hadn't actually been to New York for some years. At least four. Maybe five. She had a close friend from college, Charley, who had moved to New York, hoping to make her way as an artist. Her exhibitions to date had been very favorably reviewed. Maybe she could stop with her for a few nights? Make a week of it? Catch a show?

Lisa was so wrapped up in her rapidly evolving plans for a New York mini-break she almost missed her exit. She skidded off the highway at full pelt, her Ford Taurus grunting in complaint at this abrupt departure.

XXXXXXXXX

Gordon Buckley's house was a grandiose white Palladian structure skirted by palm trees.

A tall, silver-haired lady in a navy blue twin-set answered the door. She gave Lisa a studied, polite look – a look Lisa reckoned was reserved for trades people.

Lisa felt a little embarrassed to meet _Mrs_ Buckley, in view of her husband's debauched antics in Miami.

'He's at his golf club,' Mrs Buckley said in response to Lisa's inquiry. 'I'm not expecting him home until this evening. Is it urgent?'

'Pretty much so,' Lisa said. Well. It was to _her_. 'I really need to speak to your husband _today_, Mrs Buckley.'

'That's a shame,' Mrs Buckley said in low conspiratorial tones. 'I'm afraid the club is one of those horrid old institutions which doesn't take too kindly to women.'

'Could you instruct me how to get there?'

Mrs Buckley seemed to ponder Lisa's request, observing her at some length. Then she smiled broadly.

XXXXXXXXXX

The Sunny Springs Country Club was an eloquent country mansion, set amidst trimmed green lawns and high-feathered hedges. Its elegant front façade was streaked with thick green creepers, and faced a decorative red-tiled patio, festooned with terracotta vases, plump pink roses, and a small octagonal fishpond, featuring at its centre a chubby-faced Cupid spurting water. The patio was fringed by broad-leaved palm trees which seemed to whisper loudly in consternation at the sight of Lisa, her auburn hair flouncing, as she marched towards the entrance in grim determination.

The club's airy, ornate salon was thronged with men, which seemed most peculiar, Lisa thought, in view of the ideal golfing weather. There was a chorus of braying laughter and, oddly, the soft, shimmering sound of a suspended cymbal, and an accompanying low drumbeat. The men were clustered into a tight semi-circle, closely surrounding something which Lisa could not see from her position at the bar behind them. Lisa stood on tiptoe, striving to peer over their heads. She spied a small-boned, sleek-haired woman in a skimpy pearly-sequined flesh-colored costume which she was in the process of slipping herself out of, in as ostentatiously sexy a manner as possible.

So much for women being outlawed, Lisa thought wryly.

She scanned the room for Gordon Buckley, gradually becoming aware that she was attracting as much, if not more attention than the stripper, who faltered as her audience's eyes shifted away from her to the comparatively demure, red-head in a crisp, white linen suit who was standing, a little awkwardly, at the bar.

Buckley was hovering close to the stripper. He looked to see who had prompted such a fresh ripple of excitement.

He sneered contemptuously when he saw Lisa.

Then he recognized her, his face clouding in anxiety, most particularly because she was beckoning him to come outside.

XXXXXXXXXXX

'Is this still about that damned phone? Because I can assure you I've paid my bill, every dratted dime, if that's what you're after,' Buckley demanded, his face flushed puce with heated mortification. 'And you should also know young Missie that _ladies_ aren't allowed in this establishment.'

'I won't be coming again, I can assure you Mr Buckley,' Lisa said dryly.

In fact she couldn't wait to get away. The hot air was clammy and uncomfortable, and Buckley's sweaty snarl, his eyes bulging angrily like speckled poached eggs, was not a pleasant spectacle.

'So is it money you're after, huh? Some kind of … payment?' Buckley asked gruffly. Lisa noted there was a mild tremor in his voice. Did he really think she was here to blackmail him, because of his 'entertaining' prostitutes?

'Nothing of the sort Mr Buckley,' Lisa said in her most placatory tone. 'And I'm terribly sorry to disturb you Sir, during your … recreation.'

'Well whatever it is, be quick about it,' he said through gritted teeth.

With shaking hands, Lisa pushed the folder containing Jackson's picture towards Buckley.

He shot her a surprised look, then briefly scanned the photo inside. He sniffed, then promptly closed the folder and passed it back to Lisa.

'Is this what you came all this way to show me?' he said insolently, his mouth slack and loose-jawed. Lisa noticed he was chewing gum. ''Cos I've never seen the guy.'

Lisa narrowed her eyes in disbelief. 'Are you sure Mr Buckley? Because he says he knows you.'

'Does he now? Well, I ain't ever set eyes on the fellow and that's a fact.'

'He was at the Global Finance conference,' Lisa urged. 'You might remember his name. Jackson Rippner?' Buckley looked blank. 'James Ryder?'

Buckley shrugged. 'What do you want of him anyway?'

Lisa was suddenly stuck for words.

'Suspicion of fraud,' she blurted.

Buckley's eyes widened. 'Fraud!? But I might have done business with him!'

Lisa privately congratulated herself for hitting on the one topic which might jog Buckley's memory.

'You see my wife's family were in phosphates. Sold out. Made a fair packet. I was looking to invest some of it,' Buckley explained. 'Get ahead of the curve, ahead of the pack, know what I mean?'

'Were there any particular investment opportunities at the conference which attracted you?' Lisa asked.

'I checked out a few. Plumped in the end for Mellor, Rice and Cohen. More of a local concern as it turned out. None of this foreign jibber-jabber. But I gave the other guys a fair crack of the whip too, you know … kind of seemed the right thing to do in the circumstances.'

Lisa guessed that those particular circumstances involved being in the bar, whilst being plied with copious drinks by those companies touting for Buckley's business. Her mind flashed back to Buckley's alcohol-soaked breath and disheveled appearance when she had visited his hotel room.

'I guess it's kinda possible I may have spoken to your guy,' Buckley continued. 'But I can't say for sure.'

Lisa's heart was beating a little faster. She opened the folder again.

'Did … did he work for Mellor, Rice and Cohen?'

'Nah,' Buckley said. '_That_ was a woman.' He smirked. 'Shapely ass, nice legs.'

Lisa felt a little nauseous.

She thrust Jackson's picture into his face once more. 'And you're sure you don't remember who this man worked for? He had … he _has_ very blue eyes. They're pretty memorable.'

She studied Buckley's face as he looked once again at Jackson. It wasn't a great picture, she knew that. Grainy. Black and white. And his face was slightly in shadow. But it was unmistakably him.

Lisa fancied she now saw a glimmer of faint recognition illuminate Buckley's face. 'Blue eyes, you say? Kind of piercing blue?'

Lisa nodded vigorously.

'You know. I think … I think he was with one of the stands,' Buckley said. 'Maybe a speaker.'

'A speaker? Are you certain?' Lisa asked sceptically.

'No, no Miss. Not this guy himself. But the speakers' companies have stands. Sales literature. That sort of thing,' Buckley explained. A large glob of sweat was dribbling slowly down his flabby cheeks.

'So what other companies did you speak to?' she persisted.

'Well, there was this wind-power company from out of California. Load of old guff if you ask me.' Buckley strived to recall any more. 'It's kind of hazy you know Miss. But I spoke to someone from Global Securities Index, that I _do _remember … that Gershon chap's an inspirational speaker you know. Also … . Well. De Bowens of course. And this Beauchamps outfit.'

Lisa had grabbed a pen from her purse and was writing these names on the back of Jackson's picture. 'How do I spell Beauchamps?' she asked.

Buckley spelled it out for her. 'They were a bit too adventurous for my liking,' he said. 'Same as the Gershon chap. Into all these high-risk strategies. Too much overseas stuff.'

'Well,' Lisa said with a smile. 'The conference _was_ called _Global_ Finance. Kind of a tiny clue in the title, don't you think Mr Buckley?'

Buckley puffed out his lip peevishly. 'Is that enough now Miss?'

'Yes Mr Buckley. Thanks for your assistance,' Lisa replied with a withering smile, desperate to escape.

Already the dank gray clouds which had dogged the early stages of her journey, presaging a storm, were rapidly scuttling across the blue skies above.

She had to head back to Miami. And fast.

XXXXXXXXXX

'You sure chose a rum day to travel upstate Miss Lisa,' Eric remarked the next morning.

Lisa was exhausted. Her return trip had been long and tortuous, beset by violent electrical storms which had churned up the skies and flooded the roads.

She had still managed to stumble blearily into work at a reasonable hour, but the long day in prospect was depressing, to say the least.

'Was the trip … worth it?' Eric asked, smiling benignly.

'I think so,' she sighed.

She felt, she hoped, she'd made a _little_ progress.

The moment she'd got into her office she'd logged on to the Internet and googled the three companies Buckley could remember speaking with: Global Securities Index (GSI), De Bowens and Beauchamp's.

The corporate web site of GSI featured the soft, jowly features and dignified silver hair of Ira Gershon as its frontispiece, hailing him as a financial guru for our times in glowing terms. The company was registered in Delaware and professed to offer a comprehensive tracking guide to hedge funds and global investments, with a particular focus on emerging markets.

The site for Beauchamp Finance Fund Management was a little less star-struck. There was a brief potted history informing potential investors that Beauchamps was originally an English firm, but was now registered in the Cayman Islands – although how this news could possibly wow future customers beat Lisa. The site listed contact emails and a toll-free telephone number. Nothing else.

Lisa was more impressed by the De Bowens web site. She had, of course, heard of De Bowens. They were a well known family-owned merchant bank; a true stalwart of Wall Street. Their site was detailed, glossy, if a little dull. George De Bowen's tanned, patrician features, weren't splashed across the home page. Instead he was presented simply at his desk, a man at work.

Notably Jackson was _not_ listed amongst De Bowen's comprehensive listings of key management personnel.

Why was he working with any of them? If that was indeed what he was doing. But then why else would he have spoken to Buckley? After all, Buckley was surely not a man one would _choose_ to talk to.

Lisa still fancied Jackson was checking out a future 'job' – much as he had trailed _her_ for eight weeks before the attempted Keefe assassination. And as the most eminent person to attend the conference, Gershon still seemed a prime candidate, which surely ruled out GSI.

Then again, Jackson might have infiltrated GSI with the sole purpose of scoping out his target at particularly close quarters. It was a long shot, but she couldn't rule it out.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa's next logical step, that same afternoon, was simply to call GSI, De Bowens and Beauchamps, and ask to speak to a 'Mr James Ryder.' After all, he had been using that specific _alias_ when he was in Miami it seemed, judging by the passport she had found in his briefcase. Plus, Jackson Rippner was surely too outlandish a name to use amongst the respectable financial community. It hardly inspired confidence.

She didn't expect much, if any success from this line of inquiry. It seemed too easy, too obvious. But it had to be done.

At first her fears seemed justified. None of the receptionists she spoke to had ever heard of a James Ryder. But then there was a brief hesitation, she felt sure, from the pert young voice who answered the toll-free number at Beauchamps.

'We have a _Graham_ Ryder, in our London office,' she had said.

'What does he do?' Lisa asked tremulously. Had she met him? Did he have startling blue eyes? A host of silly questions crowded into her head.

'I can't tell you that Ma'am. Would you like to hold one minute?'

The pert voice vanished for a moment or two, then returned, even more sprightly than before.

'He's an account executive Ma'am,' she announced.

'Ah. Good.' Lisa fumbled for something to say. Might this be yet another _alias_? 'Could I … might I be able to speak with him?'

'If you wish to discuss your European portfolio or are considering a new investment, then I can put you through to one of our US advisers. The London office is now closed for the evening.'

'No. No. I'd rather speak with Mr Ryder himself.'

There was a long pause, and then the faint sound of long, talon-like nails clicking on a keyboard. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible Ma'am,' the receptionist said dolefully. 'Mr Ryder's away on paternity leave.'

XXXXXXXXXX

_Paternity _leave?

Surely then this _Graham _Ryder couldn't be Jackson, Lisa thought. Paternity leave would indicate he was married, settled, and quite obviously with children. More than that, it indicated he was a responsible, caring father, which was surely impossible for a globe-trotting assassin?

It simply didn't ring true.

However, she had noticed that 'London' was a regular destination in his passport – even though that passport also called him 'James.' But then maybe he was one of those guys who preferred to use a middle name instead of his birth-name?

And he _had_ teased her, or so she had thought at the time. His words chilled through her. 'How do you know I'm not already married?'

What if he had been hinting at the truth?

XXXXXXXXXXX

Cynthia and her fiancée Bradley invited Lisa to dine at Bradley's beachfront condo. They had planned to eat outside, on the balcony, but a gusty wind soon licked Cynthia's hair into wild disarray and sprayed them with a mound of tortilla chips, scooped straight from the bowl.

So they retreated indoors.

The dinner was a concerted effort on their part, Lisa felt, to cheer her up. Get her out. She had been working too hard, in advance of her trip to New York.

In fact Cynthia had been sweetly solicitous about her well being, ever since her trip to Sunny Springs.

Yet for all their kindness, Lisa felt cold and empty. Desperate to flee their company. Desperate to be alone with her thoughts.

What was wrong with her?

Here was her dear friend Cynthia, her round, open face busting with happiness. She was clearly very much in love with Bradley, and he with her.

Why couldn't she be happy for them?

Instead Lisa was acutely aware of the subtle body-checking touches they exchanged, the shy smiles, eyes dark and glowing with pupils the size of saucers whenever they looked at each other. She found she envied their freedom of feeling, while hating herself for responding in this fashion.

And Bradley was a great guy for Cynthia, no doubt about it, with his mop of ash-blonde hair and handsome toothy grin. Lisa had always liked him, even though he had an annoying habit of trying to fix her up with his colleagues and tennis buddies.

'We have something to ask you,' Cynthia suddenly said, halfway through the desserts. She looked at Bradley, who was grinning from ear to ear, the proverbial Cheshire Cat. He tightly clasped Cynthia's hand in his own; a small but tender act of encouragement.

'Lisa. Would … would you be our maid of honor?' Cynthia asked, barely able to suppress her excitement.

Lisa was a little taken aback.

'I don't know what to say,' she said.

Cynthia's sunny smile had faltered. '_Yes_ would be nice Lisa … but if you don't think you're up to it, if it's too much for you, I really, really understand.'

She patted Lisa's hands reassuringly.

'Of course I'm up to it,' Lisa said. Her throat felt dry and constricted. 'I … I'd love to be your maid of honor. Thank you so much for asking me.'

'It really means a lot to us,' Cynthia cooed. She impulsively threw her arms around Lisa's neck.

Then she hugged Bradley tightly. 'Calm down, calm down,' he chuckled affectionately. 'Your ice-cream's melting.'

'I don't care,' Cynthia said, planting a big, wet kiss on Bradley's cheek.

Again Lisa felt she had intruded on a private loving moment – even though, ironically, it was one which also involved herself.

How refreshing it would be, she thought, to just be _normal_. To act on natural impulses. To gleefully revel in mutual attraction.

Yet somehow she felt her own life had taken a different course, far away from the sparkling sunlight and heady romance which currently typified Cynthia's world.

Lisa sighed into her large bowl of strawberry ice cream.

Romance seemed so very unlikely for her.

Of course she'd never really loved a man.

And it had been a mighty long time since she had been truly attracted to anyone either.

Except … well, she knew that wasn't entirely true.

For one tiny moment she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander, to recall with startling, with thrilling clarity the feeling of Jackson's lips on her neck, her face, her mouth.

But no, she couldn't think like that. It was dangerous. She had to suppress the soft squibbles which churned though her tummy whenever she thought of him in this light.

It was easy enough to do.

She simply reminded herself of his innate cruelty, his penchant for violence – although even then, she wondered why. Why did he switch from tender to fierce in a split-second? What had happened to him in his life to make that man – a man of many faces she was coming to realize? Or was he just a cold, calculating sociopath, bent on destroying other people's lives? Including her own.

Of course she couldn't even be sure that she would ever see him again.

She tried to ignore the pang of regret which throbbed through her. But she couldn't. She desperately wanted to see him again, she knew she did. Why deny it?

She was inescapably drawn to his darkness and his accompanying sense of danger and unpredictability which both tormented and exhilarated her.

XXXXXXXXXX

Of course, with no new credible leads, bar scant information gleaned from the Internet about Jackson's possible employers, her hunt for the true identity of Jackson Rippner had slowed, it seemed, to a grinding halt.

Life simply proceeded as normal.

At work, Lisa engrossed herself in plans to refurbish the conference suite after the recent 'incident' as it soon became known in Lux Atlantic parlance. Anything to avoid thinking about Jackson and her failed mission to find him.

It was hugely frustrating. She had no Plan B.

Alone at home one night, Lisa pondered her situation. Tracking Jackson down would be a lot less tricky if her options were fewer. So what she still needed was more credible information about the companies Jackson _might_ be working for, beyond a flimsy semi name-check with a British accounts executive.

She needed something more concrete.

Lisa was finally driven to call her mother in Texas, which felt like rank hypocrisy considering the dire lack of interest she had expressed in her mother's fiancée Tim. But he was a highly esteemed broker who just might know more about these companies than she had so far been able to unearth on the Internet.

Tim answered the phone and automatically called for Lisa's mother.

'It's actually you I wanted to speak to,' Lisa said coyly.

Tim seemed surprised. But pleasantly so.

'What can I do for you Lisa?' he asked cheerfully.

She explained at some length that she was considering investing the small legacy her grandmother had left her and had heard good things about three fund management companies in particular. Could he check them out for her?

Tim was all too keen to help out.

XXXXXXXXX

However, it was a good few days, which sorely tried Lisa's patience, before he called her back.

'I'm sorry to have taken so long,' he said apologetically. 'But these companies are a bugger to research.'

Lisa could believe that.

'Beauchamps is a hedge fund,' Tim explained. 'They're not obliged to disclose much about themselves at all. And GSI is not famed for its transparency. But De Bowens is _bona fide_. What you see is what you get.' Tim paused. 'They're registered in the US.'

'But so is GSI,' Lisa said.

'It _was_. Not anymore. They're based in Luxembourg.'

'Luxembourg?'

'It's a legal thing. Their offices are in New York.'

_New York_. It couldn't be better. She'd be there, the day after tomorrow.

'And De Bowens is in New York too?'

'For sure. Big swanky corporate headquarters.' He paused. 'Beauchamps is based out of London, but they do have a US presence. New York or Connecticut. I'll have to check. But they're registered in … '

'The Cayman Islands.'

'Nice work Lisa,' Tim said, smiling. 'Yeah. If you're gonna invest your money and want a safe return, Beauchamps is the one to avoid. Like the plague. A bit too shady, if you ask me. I mean, sure, hedge funds can be a little bit secretive – but this one. Oh boy. I've spent days chasing their tails.'

Lisa felt an unbidden surge of warm appreciation for Tim. He really had been working hard on her request.

'And to be perfectly frank Lisa,' Tim continued. 'You're not quite their type of customer. Wouldn't make the grade. Their fund is reserved for big-time high-rollers.'

'Oh, I'd just heard the name, that's all,' Lisa said.

'You're best off with De Bowens. They offer a whole range of tailored packages, for all tastes and incomes. I mean, sure, they have global spread, if that's what you're after … but Beauchamps is all about high-risk. Too high if you ask me. I mean these guys are factoring third world debt, do you know what I mean?'

Lisa didn't really, but nodded dumbly all the same.

'And they're up to their eyeballs in all sorts of perilous markets. They've a big stake in Africa … minerals, oil, you name it. Would be good if the states they invested in weren't so goddammed insecure. I mean you've heard about this Mogando business, right?'

MOGANDO. Jackson had just been to Mogando.

Lisa could hardly breathe.

'There's these democratic elections planned, right? UN observers. The whole shebang. And the opposition guy's this really good guy, with all these social reforms, gonna slam-dunk the election. Then he goes gets himself shot.'

Lisa's heart was beating so fast her head was spinning.

'An accident?' she asked.

Tim snorted. 'Not likely. Folks think Kintuti, the incumbent president and a real nasty badass, set the whole thing up. So what do you get? Civil disorder. Blood flowing in the streets. You get the picture. So Kintuti sends in the troops. Big shutdown. Now you got the goddammed US Marines picking out US Nationals, in fear of major reprisals.'

'Why … why would they kill US nationals?' Lisa asked, desperately trying to quell the fear in her voice.

'Oh you know. The usual conspiracy stuff. It all kind of snowballs, and before you know it … ' Tim drawled. 'Well. Anyway. The long and short of it is, Lisa, Beauchamps was up to its neck in Mogando. Big bucks, I've heard. Humungous bucks.'

It had to be Beauchamps. Jackson had to be with Beauchamps.

'Are they out now? Out of Mogando?' Lisa asked.

Tim sniffed. 'Dunno. Can't tell you. They sure don't say much.'

'You say they're based in London. Would most of their employees be British?' she asked.

There was a prolonged pause from Tim. 'I dunno. You been offered a job or someat?'

'No. Not at all. I was just wondering.'

'Well, I guess a global operation will have a multinational workforce, if that's what you mean. Beauchamps were traditionally very, very British, gentlemen bankers, and highly respected too; and then in the late nineties they changed tack. Some kind of MBO or takeover, if I recall correctly. Now, it's a whole different company, and like I said, I wouldn't touch it.'

'You've been great,' Lisa breathed. 'Very helpful. It's much appreciated.'

'It's a pleasure. Any time.'

'If … if I wanted to get in contact with Beauchamps, or .. or … GSI … .'

'I'll email you all the details,' Tim said.

'Please. Thanks.'

XXXXXXXXX

Beauchamps. It was Beauchamps. She'd found him. At last, she'd found him.

Lisa danced around in excitement. She was going to New York. She'd find Beauchamps. Visit their office. There she'd ask direct. Even show the picture of Jackson if necessary.

Maybe this Graham Ryder sometimes visited the US office? Maybe he was due to come back from paternity leave? Just how long was UK statuary paternity leave anyway?

Or maybe 'paternity leave' was a corporate euphemism at Beauchamps for highly dangerous, possibly fatal business trip? Maybe Graham, if he was indeed Jackson, was still stuck in Mogando?

She hoped not.

Even though she hated Jackson – and she did, of course she did – she still didn't wish him to be in unnecessary danger. She didn't want him to die.

Oh God no.

The thing she couldn't quite understand. Why would Beauchamps send in an assassin to spark mayhem in a country they had invested so heavily in? It didn't make sense.

Unless, of course, as she had suspected earlier, Jackson was only pretending to work for Beauchamps, and was secretly in league with another paymaster.

Now that _did_ make sense.

All she had to do was find him. And prove it. And now that she was heading off to New York, this would soon become a whole lot easier, she felt sure.


	7. Stakeout

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the great reviews. I really enjoyed reading them. I couldn't help but notice, however, that most of you were _desperate_ for the return of Jackson. Don't worry! He's _back_. And after this chapter, he will stay close to the action through to the very end, (which is still some distance away), I promise you. But he couldn't possibly be in Chapter Six – after all, what would be the point of Lisa looking for someone who wasn't actually missing?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy Chapter Seven. Lisa's 'adventure' moves to New York. Apologies in advance to any New Yorkers who might get annoyed if I have got anything wrong … absolutely no offence intended to New York; it is one of my very favorite cities.

**CHAPTER SEVEN – Stakeout**

Lisa checked the address she had been given by Tim for Beauchamps. Sure enough. This was it. Hanover Street in New York's Financial District.

But Beauchamps itself was nothing like she'd expected. The office, if that's what it could be termed, was accessed by a narrow door with a tinted brown glass window. 'Beauchamps Finance Fund Management' was embossed in modest-sized gold lettering at the top of the door, although on closer inspection, Lisa noted this was little more than a slightly peeling stencil. She peered through the glass. All she could see was a staircase which led directly up from the door.

She stepped back, craning her neck upwards to see where the staircase led to. Judging by the extent of the larger scale offices occupied by a neighboring business, Beauchamps seemed to occupy just one very small room, directly at the head of the stairs. A closed gray Venetian blind hung loosely in a single-framed window.

When Tim had said Beauchamps only had a 'presence' in New York, he'd really meant it. This was little more than a mail drop.

Lisa moved closer to the door, effectively pinned against it, aiming to avoid the constant stream of smartly-dressed workers, faces sharp and focused, their hair blown askew by a strong Autumnal breeze, who swept past her.

What was she to do? Lisa thought grimly. She couldn't stand here all day, and her unanswered ringing of the doorbell indicated that Beauchamps was currently closed for business.

Lisa spotted a café diagonally opposite, at the junction of Hanover Street and Stone Street. She started to cross the road, but was forced to swerve when a courier bike came revving towards her, with a fiercely growling engine and no intention it seemed of slowing. Relieved to arrive at the café in one piece, Lisa tripped inside, immediately heartened by the warm smell of freshly ground coffee which assailed her nostrils.

The café was packed with a gaggle of suits, barking their orders for breakfast, whilst three harried staff chased from one end of a serving counter to the next, taking orders, preparing food, and accepting payment, with barely a pause for breath.

Lisa squeezed past a table, where what looked like an array of open broadsheet newspapers were seated, to gain access to a small round table, tucked tightly next to the doorway. A sour-faced, pretty young woman with slightly pinched features and dark, windswept hair occupied the seat with the finest view of the road beyond and, in particular, the entrance to Beauchamps. But Lisa had high hopes that she would have to leave for work sooner rather than later. Even so, she seemed to spend an inordinately long time supping her cappuccino, as she gazed mournfully at the passers-by.

Lisa ordered a large latte and a bacon roll with lashings of HP sauce, as a bit of a special treat after braving the overcrowded and sweaty subway from 50th Street on Broadway in Midtown all the way to Wall Street.

Gradually the café crowd thinned, and yet still the young woman sharing her table hadn't budged. Instead she ordered a second cappuccino and continued to stare out of the window.

Lisa suppressed the urge to sigh in irritation. Her presence at this table had become a little spurious, now that the surrounding seats were clearing fast. But unfortunately this table had the best view of Beauchamps. Even so, for the sake of form, she smiled weakly at the young woman, who responded with a pithy, disinterested glance, and moved away, settling herself at the neighboring table.

She ordered another latte and casually picked up a copy of _The New York Times _which had been discarded by a former customer, and browsed, unusually for her, the political news and more particularly, any World News. She told herself that she was cramming ahead of her meeting with Keefe later that day. Best not to come across as a complete Dumbo, even though she was far from certain if she even wanted to work with the Keefe campaign.

All the while her eyes kept flicking to the window, hoping someone might arrive at Beauchamps.

She glanced back to the paper, her eyes drawn to an opinion piece about the growing debacle in Mogando. It truly sounded dreadful. Gut-churning. Terrifying. How unbearable life must be for the people living there. And the random violence was still mounting.

She hoped Jackson had got away in time – even though, she had no doubt that Jackson had played some part in the awful events which had unfurled in the last fortnight. He might even be largely to blame, a catalyst, if her suppositions were correct.

Her attention was distracted by a sudden movement from the table next to her. The young woman's cell phone had vibrated. She scrabbled to extract it from her purse, and then answered in a surprisingly cool, poised voice. She appeared to be arranging a later meeting with a friend, and judging from her sudden burst of light, pealing laughter, she was even flirting a little.

Lisa couldn't help but note that when the young woman laughed her entire face lit up, seemingly transformed with a bright, vivacious beauty. She also noticed, now that her attention was firmly drawn, that she had a slim, willowy figure, snugly-fitted into a smart black suit, and was wearing a delicate gold filigree necklace, at the heart of which was a gleaming white jewel. If that was indeed a diamond, as Lisa strongly suspected it was, then it was highly unlikely that this was the type of lady who ever had to suffer the early morning crush on the subway.

Lisa's attention was snapped away from the young woman by a tall man with gray hair and a matching mackintosh, heading up Hanover Street, who seemed to be slowing, most deliberately, outside Beauchamps. He stopped and pulled a key from his pocket. He opened the door and disappeared inside.

Lisa wondered if she should drain her cappuccino and leg it over to Beauchamps directly, and ask this guy if he recognized Jackson from the security camera photo she was carrying.

But then she noticed that the young woman was _also_ staring intently at the door, a cross expression on her face. She told her friend on the cell phone that she'd call back later.

So she was watching Beauchamps too! Lisa immediately decided it was best to not demonstrate an over-eager interest in what was happening on Hanover Street. After all, she knew nothing about this young woman, who she worked for, what she was doing.

Lisa resumed her perusal of _The New York Times_, although her eyes skated and blurred over the words before her. She surreptitiously stole glances out of the window – still no sign of the gray-haired gentleman – and then at her fellow observer.

Suddenly, the young woman stood up, deposited money on the table, checked her watch, and moved outside, where she stood stock still, under the café's crimson awning.

Her eyes were fixed firmly on the door to Beauchamps, occasionally shifting right then left, up and down Hanover Street, with a cursory glance towards Stone Street.

She checked her watch again.

Seized with a strange, unbidden impulse, Lisa summoned her check, readying to leave as soon as possible. Just in case. She had an inkling … she didn't know why, or where from.

And she was right.

Minutes later, a lean, dark-suited man was sauntering down Hanover Street. He stopped outside Beauchamps, fished for a key in his pocket and let himself in.

Even at this distance, Lisa had instantly recognized Jackson. She struggled to quell the nervous excitement which had suddenly gripped her, qualified by a cool, tingling fear.

This was what she had wanted. Yet still she wondered what precisely she should do. Should she simply sit this out, keep a low profile, _then_ follow him? See what he was up to, where he was headed? Or should she just confront him, show him that _she_ had the smarts to track _him_ down? She wanted to show him that he wasn't as darned clever as he liked to think he was.

Stoked by the latter option, Lisa rushed out of the café and was about to speed across the street, when she noticed that the willowy young woman had beat her to Beauchamps's doorway, and was already determinedly pressing the doorbell, over and over again.

Eventually, Jackson returned to street level and opened the door. An unmistakable shading of surprise skimmed across his features.

The young woman tipped forwards, almost pushing him over. He steadied himself and allowed the young woman to wrap herself tightly around him. He returned her embrace with one arm, the other resting against the door-frame. He then levered her backwards onto the street, briskly closing the door behind him.

Lisa could hardly believe the transformation in the rather stiff young woman she had first encountered in the café. She was fizzing with childlike glee, jumping up and down in excitement, constantly touching him and ruffling his hair, which he instantly patted down again, although Lisa could see he was grinning.

A strange sinking feeling seemed to overwhelm her. One which seemed to grow when the young woman, alive with smiles, flung her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. She was a tall woman, virtually matching Jackson in height. His arms slipped around her slender waist, and their faces now melded into a long kiss.

Lisa leaned heavily against the café window, and was then shocked by an elderly gentleman who banged on the glass from inside the café. She stumbled to her feet, apologizing, hoping she hadn't caught Jackson's attention.

But no. They were still kissing. Then they quickly pulled apart, as if they were recalling an appointment.

They hastened away, although Lisa was sure Jackson had paused, momentarily, his steel blue eyes vivid even from this distance, scanning the street; almost as though he was sniffing the air.

Lisa slunk back into the shadows.

Moments later, Jackson and the young woman hailed a cab.

Lisa darted out from the protective shadow cast by the café awning, and followed suit, feeling ridiculous and clichéd when she asked the driver to follow the cab in front. She wondered if she should try to weave an explanatory story of some kind; perhaps her husband was having an affair with another woman, and she wanted to see where they were going for their secret trysts?

But in the end she couldn't be bothered. What did it matter what the cab driver thought anyway? He seemed lost in his own world, grooving away to what sounded like Middle Eastern jazz, as he manoeuvred his way through the traffic.

Lisa was feeling rattled. A deep sense of angry unease about this whole scenario was rapidly overtaking her. Something wasn't quite right. What exactly _was_ Beauchamps? And then there was this _girl_ – she probably merited the term Lisa thought, as she was some years younger than herself – who was clearly very attached to Jackson. His wife? No. That seemed unlikely. Why would she be waiting in a sidewalk café, ready to pounce?

A bit like herself, really, Lisa thought with a soft sigh.

The cab was scooting towards Manhattan's Midtown at a fairly rapid rate, cruising alongside the East River where the traffic seemed a little less congested compared to downtown. It now occurred to Lisa that Jackson and his pretty little friend might even be heading out of New York, which could prove problematic, seeing as Lisa was due to meet Keefe and his team later that afternoon.

However, Jackson's cab, which was three cars in front, soon veered leftwards and before long, came to a halt on 53rd Street. Lisa asked her driver to drop her off a short distance behind. She waited to see the direction Jackson and the girl were headed before following.

They turned right.

Lisa sprinted after them, also turning right, onto Lexington Avenue.

But where had they gone?

Crestfallen, Lisa gazed about herself, her eyes sweeping north and south, striving to pick out Jackson's lean form, amidst the tumult of workers and shoppers who thronged the sidewalks.

She glanced upwards at a large modern office block with a wide concrete forecourt, built to resemble a semi-ampitheatre. A knot of people, chiefly garbed in the professional suited uniform of an urban office workforce, were streaming through the doors, but Jackson and his willowy friend weren't among them.

Except … except, yes, they were … .

Lisa's insides jolted at the sight of Jackson, standing a little to the left of the cluster of people heading in and out of this office block. He was talking on his cell phone, a broad, beaming grin on his face. His eyes flicked upwards, towards a higher window. Lisa looked in turn, but from her distance and angle, the sun was flashing white against the glass, so she could not see who or what Jackson was looking at.

Lisa suddenly felt a little exposed. She had not made any effort to conceal herself, but realized she probably should, as the willowy young woman was standing a few paces apart from Jackson, preoccupied with lighting a cigarette while nonchalantly looking about. Her eyes drifted alarmingly across Lisa, who instinctively ducked down, hoping to avoid any further, prolonged scrutiny.

Lisa hastened to a low stone bench, positioned against a concrete wall, next to a newsstand.

The willowy girl returned her full attention to Jackson who was still talking on his cell. She slipped her arms around his chest and pulled herself close, her head almost resting on his shoulder.

With one slick movement, Jackson, who had just completed his call, shrugged her away. He threw her a cold, hard look which Lisa knew all too well – so well, she almost applauded.

He was busy dialing another number on his cell phone and extended his arm towards her, batting away her cigarette smoke, warning her to leave him alone. The willowy girl shuffled sheepishly away, her face disconsolate.

Lisa almost felt a surge of pity for her. She seemed so young, craving his attention.

She must be in love, Lisa thought, and she doesn't know if he loves her in return.

But he had been happy to kiss her, Lisa acknowledged. In the street. For all the world to see. So they were clearly intimate. Probably even lovers.

Lisa was suddenly aware that Jackson was surveying the surrounding area, while talking on his cell phone. She could feel his chill blue eyes, inspecting the crowds, and for one brief, heart-stopping moment, she felt certain his eyes had picked her out with laser-like precision, despite the melee of people constantly milling in front of her, browsing the newsstand.

To her relief, his gaze passed her by.

He was on the move again. He flipped shut his cell phone and tugged firmly at his companion's sleeve. She flung her cigarette butt to the floor and stabbed it dead with her heel. They headed quickly into the office building.

Lisa waited just a few moments before following. Lisa could see them, through the tinted glass doors, waiting with a bunch of other people, for the elevators. But how would she know which floor was their destination? She could hardly get in the elevator _with _them.

Her only option was to wait for them to descend again. She had spotted a Starbucks across the road, which might do well for yet another stakeout.

Lisa grimaced at the incongruity of her situation. This was _supposed_ to be a vacation. And instead of enjoying the delights of New York City, here she was, chasing after a man who'd once tried to kill her.

The elevator doors snapped open and Jackson disappeared inside.

Lisa entered the building, homing in on a vast placard affixed to the wall which detailed all the companies resident in this particular office block. Maybe there was a Beauchamps subsidiary here? She studied all the names.

Really she should write them down. Then, with a bit of research, she could try to work out which company Jackson was visiting. There had to be a reason Jackson had darted inside straight after talking to somebody in the building. A friend? An associate?

However, she didn't fancy drawing too much attention to herself – particularly in front of a rather surly-looking security guard hovering close by.

XXXXXXXXXX

A full hour had passed and still no sign of Jackson. From her stakeout post in Starbucks, Lisa had kept her eyes firmly fixed on the office opposite, with only a brief interruption, to order a fresh latte, changing to a sparkling water at the last moment - her nerves were jangling badly enough already.

She wondered if she should call Charley. Tell her she had arrived safely in New York and hoped to see her later. As she was rooting in her purse for her cell phone, she alighted on a business card. From Officer Kirk Novelli.

He had visited her just before she set off for New York, presenting her with a form to fill in, to make an official declaration that her car had been stolen. He had been good-humored and kind – kind enough to make no mention of their last embarrassing meeting when she had played him _Boogie Wonderland_ rather than Jackson's admission of culpability in the attempted Keefe assassination. He warned her that the police were unlikely to find her car, as auto theft was epidemic in Miami. Lisa, of course, had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that they would struggle to find her Toyota – Jackson had put paid to that when he'd ignited that almighty inferno in the parking lot.

Novelli had wished her the best for her trip to New York, his home turf. Just before he'd left, he'd pressed his card into her hand. He jabbed his finger at the card.

'That there's my cell number, if you need to talk, if you need _anything_. You hear me?'

'Sure. Thanks,' Lisa had said, a little uneasy at his manner. She had then congratulated him and Suzette on the wonderful news that their baby girl had finally been released from hospital. They had decided to call her Mimi. Lisa promised to visit as soon as she returned from New York.

Lisa slotted Novelli's card safely into her wallet. She tried calling Charley, but there was no reply, so she grabbed a handful of Starbucks napkins and headed out.

XXXXXXXXXX

Back in the foyer of the office building, Lisa set to copying the names of all the businesses onto a napkin as quickly as possible.

What am I doing? She suddenly thought. This is ridiculous. The logical, quickest way to record these names was to take a photo of the placard using her cell phone. It might look a bit odd while she was doing it, but if she was quick … .

She realized that she had to photo the placard in parts, to at least ensure the names were legible. She had only made it to the 5th floor when the elevator to her right dinged open, and a huddle of workers spilled out.

Lisa froze. She could distinctly hear Jackson's voice in the midst of the sudden commotion, although she couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

Panic-stricken, Lisa stooped behind the stragglers emerging from the lift, watching Jackson move towards the exit. His young female companion was still alongside. She burst into high, fluting laughter at something Jackson had said. They had now been joined by another man, taller, heavier than Jackson, with neat, cropped hair, but his face was hidden from view. He was laughing too, a deep, raucous laugh.

Her cell phone was still in photo-mode. She instinctively clicked the 'select' button on her phone, and was about to take another snap, for good measure, when her cell phone suddenly sprang into life. She dashed it to her ear.

'Lisa!' Talbot exclaimed with what seemed to Lisa to be undue exuberance. 'It's Talbot. Talbot Haynes.'

'Hi there Talbot,' Lisa said a little wearily. 'Look, I'm a bit … .'

'Bit of bad news I'm afraid,' Talbot said, disregarding her dismissive tone. 'Charles is stuck in Washington – some kind of emergency discussions over this horrible Mogando business.'

Just the word 'Mogando' sent a shiver of apprehension down Lisa's spine.

'So … he won't make it to New York till tomorrow, even Sunday,' Talbot said.

'I see.'

'Look, you can stay on at the hotel till he arrives … we have a deal with Starwood.'

'Thanks. But I'm hoping to stay with a friend over the weekend. Just call me when Keefe gets up to town,' Lisa said hurriedly, hoping to get him off the phone. Jackson and his companions were at the main entrance.

'That's real good of you Lisa. He's gotta be here Sunday. He's speaking at a memorial service for Senator Oakley at St Patrick's … good friend of the family, and a loyal supporter … .'

Now at closer quarters, she could see Jackson's face in more detail, even if he was in profile, and she was only able to sneak a covert glance. He had a distinct tan, which afforded him a brighter, more enervated countenance. His eyes blazed bluer than ever in contrast.

Lisa found it difficult to tear her eyes away.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to the cell phone in her hand, which had almost fallen from her grasp. She could hear a distant cheeping noise which sounded like 'Pizza, Pizza.' She realized it was Talbot, calling her name.

'Talbot?'

'Hey there! Lisa! Did you go out of range for a minute there?'

'Must have,' she muttered.

Jackson had now left the building but the gathering of people who had descended in the elevator were directly behind him, obscuring Lisa's view.

'Talbot?' she cried. 'This is really not a good time. Can we speak later?'

'Sure thing Lisa. But I didn't know if you caught what I said about Colm Buchanan.'

'Who?' Lisa asked as she moved swiftly towards the exit and out of the building. Where had they got to? They must have sprinted across the forecourt, because they certainly weren't in sight.

'Colm Buchanan,' Talbot reiterated. 'He's a major campaign supporter. Founded _America First_.'

Lisa could scarcely hear him. Her greatest focus was on the whereabouts of Jackson and his friends.

'Right,' Lisa said breathlessly as she jogged across the forecourt, then looked left and right on Lexington. Still no sign.

'So would you like to meet up with him?' Talbot asked.

'Sure. Look Talbot. Like I said. Something's come up. Can we speak later? Please?' Lisa could barely suppress the rising panic in her voice.

_All her good work undone. He'd gone. Vanished into thin air._

'OK Lisa. I'll call you tomorrow. Have a nice day,' Talbot said cheerfully.

Thank God for that, Lisa thought, stuffing her cell phone into her purse.

But it was too late. She'd missed him. Perhaps there'd been a car or a cab waiting outside for them?

XXXXXXXXXX

After such a disastrous end to her day of super-sleuthing, Lisa decided to call it quits and head back to her hotel.

It was a swift cab ride to The Sheraton Manhattan, situated just a short trip from Times Square. Lisa couldn't face the subway and walking was too long-winded, when all she wanted to do was collapse onto the expansive king-size bed in her hotel room, and stare up at the ceiling.

Lisa's hotel room was cool and welcoming; a pleasant surprise as yesterday the room had been too hot, forcing her to crank up the air-conditioning, the downside being the loud rumbling noise which erupted from the unit and persisted throughout the night, hindering her chances of sleep.

Lisa lay on her bed, teary and tired. She'd tried to play Jackson at his own game, and failed. Miserably. And now, she'd have to start over. But at least she had a _second _venue to watch and explore.

Either that, or she needed the intervention of a fateful meeting, to get her back on track.

She switched on the TV, briskly hopping through the channels with the remote control. She chanced upon _The Black Swan_, her favorite old-time swashbuckling movie, starring Maureen O'Hara as the feisty, vivacious redhead and Tyrone Power as the dastardly but irresistible pirate. She'd loved this movie as a kid, watching it over and over with her Mom. Sadly the film was close to finishing. Tears rolled slowly down her cheek as the lovers embraced, a setting sun serving as a suitably romantic backdrop. Why wasn't real life like that?

Lisa brusquely wiped away her tears. What the hell was wrong with her? There was no point in moping about.

She'd call Charley again. Hopefully they could hook up, grab a bite to eat, a few drinks. More than anything, Lisa felt a driving need to talk to someone, a genuinely friendly face. And Charley was blessed with an acerbic sense of humor and a lighthearted approach to life which, right now, was just what she needed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Fortunately Charley was free for dinner that evening. They met in a busy café-bar off Bleeker Street where Charley promised Lisa they made a mean Seabreeze. Charley could only stay for an hour, hour and a half tops, as she had a party later on which she wasn't too keen on attending, but felt she had to.

'One of those boring corporate events. A potential sponsor,' she said sniffily. 'You can come if you like,' she added breezily.

'It's sweet of you to invite me, but I'll pass,' Lisa said, smiling broadly.

They browsed the menu. Lisa had decided on a chicken and spinach couscous salad, but Charley was typically indecisive, which made Lisa smile affectionately.

Lisa had known Charley since they had roomed together at college. Charley had always been giddy, flamboyant and fun to be around. She had strong, angular features, framed by thick blonde hair, cut into a sharply stylish bob – a look she had never deviated from in all the years Lisa had known her.

She had always been an aspiring artist, despite majoring in English Literature, with a bold, fertile imagination. But it had been a long haul. Only now was Charley's work gaining true appreciation. She had contributed to well-reviewed major exhibitions featuring up and coming artists. But tomorrow night was devoted solely to _her _work.

'I can't wait for you to see my new apartment,' Charley said eagerly. She indicated to the waitress to hold for just a few minutes longer while she decided on her order. 'It's a horrible thing to say, but if it hadn't been for my aunt popping off when she did, I could never have afforded my own space. Let alone in Manhattan.'

'I can't wait to get out the hotel. I keep judging it as a hotelier – and it keeps falling short. Hardly relaxing,' Lisa said wearily. 'I really appreciate your letting me stay,' she added warmly.

Charley squeezed her hand. 'You can stay as long as you like.'

Charley finally chose her dish, and ordered yet another round of Seabreezes.

'You look bushed,' she said to Lisa.

'Do I?' Lisa asked. She giggled nervously. 'I had a bad night. The aircon was too damned noisy.'

'More than that,' Charley said. 'What's up?'

Four Seabreezes a piece later, the food was consumed and the coffees ordered, and Lisa had told Charley just about everything there was to know about what had happened with Jackson, including the more embarrassing details of their close encounters in Miami. It was a relief to finally talk about it.

'Do you find it terribly shocking?' Lisa asked. 'I mean … it's kind of … screwed-up, don't you think?'

Charley leaned closer across the table, her eyes a little bleary from the alcohol they had been knocking back at a fairly rapid rate.

'I think you've blown your fucking mind sweetheart,' she said tenderly. 'This Jackson guy must be one helluva kisser.'

Lisa could feel herself blush hotly. Her palms suddenly felt greasy with sweat.

'That's not what I'm doing Charley,' she said primly. 'I want to treat him to a bit of his own medicine.'

Charley smiled.

'You've got to believe me,' Lisa persisted, in plaintive tones. 'This man has done all he can to ruin my life.'

'And he's attractive you say,' Charley said. Her voice was low, almost menacing. Lisa suddenly recalled that Charley was a bit of a man-eater at college. Maybe she was weighing up Jackson's potential as a challenging future conquest.

'Sure, he's _attractive_. But just think of what he's put me through in the last six months. Doesn't it all seem really sinister to you? Suspicious?'

'Oh, sure it does,' Charley asserted, gulping back her Seabreeze in readiness for her coffee.

Lisa still had half a glass of Seabreeze which she pensively swirled around the glass.

She was playing down her feelings, however complex and confusing, and Charley knew it. Jackson scarcely left her thoughts these days. Her therapist Miriam would have a field day.

'What I wanted to say,' Charley said, leaning in even closer than before, 'this is the first guy you've had any real ... you know … _contact _with since …. .'

Lisa smiled wanly.

Charley shrugged. 'Well. That's a big deal if you ask me.'

'But it's not _my _big deal,' Lisa said. 'He lives in another world. One I certainly don't want to be part of. He's devoted his life to killing innocent men, women and children. Like the Keefes.'

'But he failed.'

'Sure he failed, but he didn't plan to. And just think – how many times he _hasn't_ failed? How many orphans, how many grieving wives and mothers are there, because of what he does?'

Lisa downed her Seabreeze in one single swoop. 'You know what. I pity that poor girl who was hanging off him today. I bet she knows nothing about him.'

'And you say he works for this English company – Beauchamps?'

'Looks that way.'

Charley stirred a lump of brown sugar into her coffee. 'That's a shame,' she said. 'It if it had been De Bowens you'd be able to get the low-down tomorrow night at the art show. De Bowens are the main sponsor.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. De Bowens are into art big time – sponsor loads of events. Support lots of decent young artists,' Charley said. She drained her coffee. 'I sort of know the boss's daughter, Alex De Bowen. She's a regular. Loves the art-scene vibe. And she's a buyer too. Even bought my _Manhattan Jungle_ collage last February for a pretty tidy sum.'

'Where's it hanging?' Lisa asked.

'Oh god knows. Probably her old man's place. He recently bought a swish pad on Fifth Avenue, thought to have cost a cool 38 million dollars,' Charley confided, her eyes wide.

'Weren't they one of the only banks who vowed to stay put downtown after 9/11?' Lisa asked curiously.

'Yeah. So they said. They've kept something going on … but it hasn't stopped them building a grand new HQ on Madison Avenue. Cost an arm and a leg I hear.'

Charley glanced furtively at her watch. 'Shit, man. I've got to run.' She jumped up and reached for her purse.

'It's on me,' Lisa said hastily. 'I … I really appreciated our chat. You've no idea how much.'

Charley grinned. 'Well. I'm a bit short so this once, hey?' She pulled on a thick black angora jacket and snapped shut her vivid orange leather purse. 'I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. And don't forget you need a posh frock for my do … I want us to rock the room!'

Lisa laughed, successfully concealing her disappointment that her friend was having to rush off. 'I'll see what I can do,' she said softly, signaling for the bill.

Charley was all set to leave, but at the last moment recalled something else.

'You need a house-key – I'll probably be stuck at the gallery all day,' she said. 'Oh, and if I don't get to see you before the show, you'll need an invitation to get in.'

Charley slapped a key and an invite on the table in front of Lisa and ran off, waving frantically as she left.

Lisa delved into her purse for the money to pay the bill, and in the process grabbed her cell phone.

She ought to quickly call her Dad. Tell him she was safe and well. He'd be worried sick about her by now.

It then occurred to her that she could have shown Charley a photo of Jackson. Not only did she have the screenshot of Jackson from her hotel, but in all likelihood there was also a photo of him on her cell phone from earlier today.

She skipped through the phone menu, opening her library of photos. Most had been taken in Miami of course, but there were a few rather blurry shots of the placard from Lexington Avenue, and one final shot, side-on and half-cast in shadow, of Jackson and the willowy girl about to exit the office building. Their friend, however, was almost completely hidden by the group of people pushing to get outside.

Lisa now saw that Jackson had something tucked under his arm, that she hadn't noticed him carrying before. She scrutinized the photo on the tiny screen even more attentively. It was a folder with a logo. She squinted, desperate to make out the wording, which was a little blurred. She could make out a big B, but it was in the wrong place to spell Beauchamps. The word – or was it two? - was surrounded by an elaborate circular loop.

Her eyes flicked to the crisp white invitation Charley had left on the table, drawn to the sponsor's logo.

_There it was_.

De Bowens, with a long tailing loop extending the final S, which then encircled the company's name.

Which meant that Jackson, for some reason, was holding a De Bowens folder. Could he possibly be working for both companies? Beauchamps _and_ De Bowens? Was there a connection between Beauchamps and De Bowens?

And if he _did_ work for De Bowens too, was there a possibility he would attend Charley's art show?


	8. A Fateful Meeting

**Author's note:**

Thanks again for the lovely reviews. They really keep me going, because there are moments when I get to thinking that I've an awful lot of story to tell, and I don't want to be boring the pants off everybody unnecessarily! So your reviews make it seem so very worthwhile.

This chapter has a lot of plot-pushing, and is long – the longest yet. I struggled to cut it, considered slicing it into two, but decided that this section of the plot really has to be a seamless whole (apart, perhaps, from the opening scene). I still fear there's a few clunky moments going on in here, mainly because I'm so excited about the following few chapters I kept dipping in and out while I wrote ahead. But I still wanted to get this chapter out before the weekend. I hope you enjoy! For all those Jackson lovers out there, he's very much back.

**8 – A Fateful Meeting**

Lisa gazed out over Central Park from the lofty, exclusive heights of the lobby bar at the Mandarin Oriental hotel. It was a crisply chill afternoon. The trees and avenues in the park were dappled gold in the soft sunlight, while the soaring skyscrapers and towers downtown, viewed from the hotel's panoramic windows, were gilded and glinting, against a clear blue sky.

Lisa sighed at the beauty laid out before her.

Her reverie was interrupted by Talbot Haynes who approached Lisa with an unctuous smile, bidding her seat herself at a cream chair pushed close to a low glass table, while he nestled himself into the corner of a couch opposite.

He was nothing like she'd imagined. Lisa had envisaged a pink-cheeked, chubby man in middle age, but instead Talbot Haynes was gangly and balding, with a waspish face and thin lips, but was probably only in his early thirties.

'Colm is on his way. But it seems unfair to rush a man when he's enjoying a Thai Yoga massage, doesn't it?' Talbot tittered. 'So what can I get you to drink?'

A Seabreeze was on the tip of Lisa's tongue, but seeing as this was more or less a job interview, she plumped instead for an iced cranberry juice.

Talbot ordered an iced tea for himself.

'So, Keefe's still in Washington,' Lisa said, disappointed.

''Fraid so Lisa. These emergency talks can go on a mighty long time. He's desperate to get here by tomorrow. Like I said before. He's got personal business. Plus he's got TV spots lined up through Monday, so the guy's gotta be here, come hell or high water!'

'Well. I'm staying next week. So perhaps I can see him then?' Lisa asked. She sipped at the cranberry juice, rather hoping that this might mean she could be excused from this little meeting, which was now little more than a rude intrusion on her thoughts … now that she was so preoccupied with the idea, the fear even, that Jackson might attend Charley's art show that very evening.

'Sure Lisa,' Talbot said. 'Charles wants to see you, so it'll be great if you can stick around.'

Talbot paused to sip his iced tea. Lisa couldn't help but notice that he had a strangely repellent way of drinking, which involved too much tongue for her liking. There was something reptilian, lizard-like in his manners which repelled her.

'Now. Colm – who you're gonna meet shortly – he's a great guy. He spearheaded _America First_ for Leighton Ritchie's campaign, four years ago. But we've persuaded him to jump ship – and we're very proud of the work he's being doing on his latest project. _America Forwards_.'

'But isn't Keefe running _against _Ritchie for the nomination?' Lisa asked.

Talbot chuckled. 'Which makes it all the better that Colm's come on board!'

'And … just what is _America Forwards_?' Lisa asked. She didn't know what _America First _was either, but didn't fancy displaying her ignorance in full.

'_America Forwards_ is a 501c4 group. Better known as a 527,' came a deep, pleasant voice from behind them.

Lisa swung round to see a tall, well-built man, tanned and elegantly dressed, sauntering towards them, his hand outstretched to Lisa in welcome.

He had a warm, firm handshake, and an engaging smile.

'Hi there,' Lisa said.

'And you must be the famous Lisa Reisert,' he said, still holding her hand in his own. 'I've heard a lot about you.'

'And you are … .'

'Colm Buchanan.'

He sat down, then gestured to a waiter and ordered a Bourbon on the rocks.

'Colm's one of our foremost campaigners,' Talbot said deferentially.

Colm grinned. 'Don't flatter me Talbot. I'm just a fixer. I arrange the right meetings, with the right people, usually with the right amount of money.'

His smile broadened.

Only now did Lisa notice that he wasn't actually American. His voice was deep and burnished with a mild American twang. More like somebody who had lived in the USA for many years. But the brusque, guttural inflection at the heart of his accent suggested he was originally Scottish or Irish.

'And _America Forwards_ does what exactly?' Lisa felt she should try to ask an interested question, but mostly she just wanted him to talk some more. He had a soothing yet authoritative voice.

'Well, as you know Lisa, there's only a certain amount of campaigning and fundraising a candidate is allowed to undertake. Hence we have groups like _America Forwards_. We ease the pressure. We take on a lot of the fundraising and run our own ad campaigns in support of our preferred candidate. Which in this case is our dear mutual friend, Charles Keefe.'

Scottish. Definitely Scottish, Lisa decided. Irish accents were more singsong whereas Colm's accent was quite harsh, tempered with an easy charm.

'So … do you want me to work for _you_,' she said pointedly to Colm. And then, with a nod towards Talbot, 'or for the Keefe campaign?'

Colm and Talbot exchanged puzzled looks. 'Both,' Talbot said. 'It's one and the same thing.'

Lisa couldn't quite see this, but she remained tight-lipped.

Colm agreed. 'What we're looking for are strong-minded, flexible managers, skilled at organizing people and busy schedules. And you, Lisa, fit that bill.'

Lisa thought for a moment. 'You know I do like my job at the Lux Atlantic. And I'm not certain what I would do once Charles was elected.'

Talbot frowned. 'This would be a great opportunity for you Lisa. High-level involvement with the Keefe campaign will open a lot of doors for you in the future.'

Something in his sombre, ponderous manner amused Lisa. She suppressed a desire to giggle, looking instead at Colm, who's face was still and attentive, although his eyes were smiling.

He had really rather nice eyes, Lisa thought. Green, slightly feline.

'You still haven't really answered my question Mr Buchanan,' Lisa said.

'Call me Colm,'

'Sure. Colm.' Lisa smiled. 'You've explained the functionality of a 527 group as a genre, but I'd still like more of a handle on just what _America Forwards_ stands for?'

'A lot has been said about the dangers of terrorism. And rightly so,' Colm said. 'Charles has performed wonderfully at the Department of Homeland Security. It's a strong platform for Charles to campaign on, based on his record – both professional and _private_.'

Colm paused here and seemed to gaze at Lisa with particular meaning.

'At _America Forwards_, we are focusing foremost on dangers even closer to home. Those that affect everyday lives. Organized violence, street crime, gang warfare, anti-social behavior, even petty vandalism. We want Americans to reclaim their homes, their streets, their communities. Free from anxiety, threats against their personal welfare, the welfare of their families and loved ones.'

Colm continued speaking, but his words began to wash over Lisa, as she found herself wondering why and how Colm, a Scotsman, had become so interested in American politics. What was his background?

And then, she thought of Jackson, and how he and his murderous machinations, designed to undermine and disrupt the social fabric, were part of the very culture Colm Buchanan's _America Forwards_ was so keen to stamp out.

Of course, there was Jackson's apparent, though unproven connection to De Bowens. In the cold light of day it seemed ludicrous. How could _he_, an assassin, possibly be connected with what she knew to be a well-established, highly respected pillar of American society?

There had been some rhyme and reason to his involvement with Beauchamps, which seemed a decidedly shady organization. But not De Bowens.

Lisa realized that Colm had stopped speaking some time ago, and the heavy silence indicated that she was now expected to offer her opinion.

She nodded her head in appreciation. 'It sounds … really interesting.'

Colm smiled, sitting back in his seat, arms folded.

Lisa had the distinct feeling he knew she had tuned out, but he didn't seem to mind too much. After all, she was under no real illusions here. She knew full well that any appointment would be based on personal reward for saving Keefe's life, rather than political acumen.

'Good' Talbot said, a little tentatively. 'It's key Lisa, that you agree with our main principles. And you seem a sensible girl, so I'm certain we can work well together.'

Lisa's eyes flashed angrily at Talbot. A _girl_? Could the man be any more patronizing? He was only a few years older than herself.

Colm quickly interceded. 'I guess you'll be wanting a lot more information before you make any firm decisions Lisa.'

'I'm looking forward to speaking with Charles,' she said pointedly.

She took a long cool drink of cranberry juice.

_This isn't my world_, she thought.

Her eyes drifted away to the green spaces of the park, the tips of trees in the distance visible through the window. The sun had waned to a ghostly silver, and was skulking behind a steady stream of long, gray clouds.

'I'm going to have to get going I'm afraid,' she said apologetically. 'I've made prior arrangements with a friend.'

'Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have spent so long in the Spa … cut into our time a bit,' Colm said politely.

He deftly flicked a card from his jacket's inside breast pocket and pushed it firmly towards her. She picked it up and studied it.

_Colm Buchanan_

_Buchanan, Sheen and Smith Associates._

And then two numbers and an email. No address.

'The second number's my cellphone,' he said. 'If you're at a loose end, just give me a call. I'm based in Manhattan.'

'That's very kind,' she said.

'It'd be good to talk some more.' Colm glanced dismissively at Talbot who was occupied in signing for the drinks. 'I've already got your number,' he added, a little sheepishly. 'Hope you don't mind.'

Talbot leaned forward. 'I'll call you tomorrow Lisa. Update you on Charles's movements.'

'Great,' Lisa said.

Colm's phone was beeping frantically. 'I've got to take this I'm afraid,' he said, looking a little downcast. 'So if you'll excuse me. It was good to finally meet you Lisa Reisert,' he said, quickly squeezing her hand in his own.

He moved away in pursuit of privacy.

Lisa and Talbot bid each other a slightly awkward farewell. It hadn't been a tremendously successful meeting and she could tell that Talbot was a little deflated.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was glad to move from the Sheraton Manhattan to Charley's snug little apartment on Upper West Side. She liked this part of the city. There was a string of bars and sidewalk cafes on Broadway, close by, and a local deli straight across the tree-lined street from Charley's apartment block.

Charley's apartment was at the top of a long flight of stairs, snuck into four pokey rooms. Charley mainly occupied a living room which was the biggest space, and looked out onto the street below. There was a tiny kitchen, an even tinier bathroom and a small spare room, mainly filled with boxes, bin liners stuffed with clothes and a narrow single bed.

Lisa lay on the bed and was soon fast asleep.

XXXXXXXXX

Darkness had fallen by the time Lisa awoke.

Lisa glanced at her watch, leaped off the bed, and headed into Charley's dingy bathroom, where she hastily showered. She then dashed, shivering, back to the spare bedroom, where she jostled open her suitcase and pulled out a small, black dress. Nothing flash or exciting. But an old favorite. She applied a dab of perfume and a lick of lipstick, then pulled on a pair of black high-heeled sandals, hoping they didn't look too summery for New York in Fall.

Minutes later Lisa hailed a cab on Broadway, gabbling directions to the art gallery in Chelsea, where Charley's art show was being held.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was surprised at the large number of guests crowded into the art gallery when she arrived. The gallery itself was bright, spacious and well lit, with a circular upper tier, overlooking a wide atrium.

As she stepped into the atrium from the foyer, Lisa was struck by the buzzing wall of chatter which animated the otherwise austere surroundings. The gleaming white walls were festooned with Charley's art; large, colorful and often confusing painted canvases.

A smart young waiter professionally wielding a tray of fluted glasses brimful with champagne, approached Lisa, flashing her a welcoming smile. She was glad of a drink, downing it quickly, hoping to quell the nervous butterflies which were churning through her stomach.

Lisa took a deep breath, scanning the premises for Charley. But she was no-where to be seen.

There was no sign of Jackson either … .

But then again, had she really expected him to be here? Just because he _might_ work for De Bowens – and she had precious little evidence bar a grainy cellphone shot of his carrying a De Bowens folder. And even if he did, it didn't mean he was likely to attend an event they were sponsoring. Far from it.

Lisa snatched another champagne from a passing waiter and gulped it back, twirling aimlessly in the center of the room, still seeking out Charley.

Her eyes finally alighted on Charley's familiar form, her clean, crisply cut blonde hair bobbing in friendly greeting to a long line of appreciative guests, at the head of a spiral, wrought-iron staircase which led to the upper gallery.

Beside her was a silver-haired gentleman with a pleasant, patrician smile, who Lisa instantly recognized from their corporate website, to be the famous George De Bowen, head of De Bowens Bank.

Lisa hurried up the staircase.

'You got here!' Charley exclaimed, 'finally!'

She clutched Lisa into a tight embrace.

Lisa realized that Charley had the telltale flushed cheeks and glistening eyes of someone who was fast approaching inebriation. One swift glance at George De Bowen beside her, confirmed her fears. He had a benign but concerned expression on his face. He reached an arm out protectively as Charley teetered forwards in excitement, almost toppling Lisa down the stairs in the process.

'Sorry I'm late,' Lisa gushed. 'I hope I haven't missed anything.'

'Just my grand opening,' Charley drawled. She staggered a little. George De Bowen quickly signaled to a broad-shouldered man in a suit standing close by, who guided Charley away from the stairs.

George turned to Lisa. 'Our illustrious artist could do with a rest. Her show has been a triumph.'

Lisa was a little worried about Charley's welfare but felt it was rude to brush off the eminent likes of George De Bowen. 'I hadn't realized just how brilliant her paintings were, until now. I haven't seen her work for some years.'

'You don't live in New York then?'

'No. I'm from Miami.'

George nodded, seeming to digest this information with earnest seriousness, although Lisa knew full well he was merely being polite for a respectable period of time before switching his attention elsewhere.

And sure enough, moments later, his eyes brightened in welcome when a tall, well-groomed girl with dark, lustrous hair, bounded up to him.

'Daddy,' she enthused. 'I've found a darling little study of the cutest dog I'm simply dying to show you.'

Lisa felt she should move away, but was rooted to the spot. Stunned and horrified.

This was clearly Alex De Bowen.

But more importantly. This was also the young woman who had waited for Jackson in that downtown cafe, who had kissed him, like a lover, in the street.

_Which surely meant he had to be here. _

Then, almost as if he was suddenly recalling his manners – although it was actually Lisa who looked more intrusive because she had not moved away according to popular party protocol – George De Bowen sought to introduce Lisa to his daughter.

'Please excuse me, I didn't catch your name,' he said.

Alex De Bowen was scrutinizing Lisa with considerable interest.

'Have we met?' she inquired.

'No … I don't think so,' Lisa stammered.

Should she mention – in as casual a tone as possible – that they had shared a table in a café on Hanover Street, just yesterday morning? Surely there was no harm in that.

But Alex was looking beyond her, to someone climbing the stairs.

'Jackson!' she cried. 'You made it!'

Lisa suddenly felt faint and a little nauseous. The sounds of the crowd dulled to a rushing roar in her ears. She grabbed hold of a hand-rail at the top of the spiral staircase to ensure she didn't miss her footing and tumble backwards, which would have been a fatal error, as she could feel that Jackson was directly behind her, a looming presence.

All she wanted was to skulk out of sight, as fast as possible.

Alex De Bowen pulled Jackson towards her. He brushed past Lisa but didn't acknowledge her presence, and now had his back to her.

Lisa used this opportunity to slowly descend the stairs.

She glanced upwards. Jackson was talking with George De Bowen, while Alex De Bowen had her arm hooked tightly through his, and was gazing up at him in unalloyed admiration.

It seemed incredible.

Jackson was intimate with the daughter of George De Bowen. One of the most powerful men on Wall Street. In the United States.

It was too much. It didn't make sense.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa felt sweaty and sick. Her head was spinning.

She grabbed another passing champagne and immediately drained it.

She stumbled her way through the crowd to the restrooms, then perceiving that the disabled cubicle was empty, she tripped towards it, and was about to enter, when a strong hand gripped her shoulder and roughly shoved her inside.

She lurched forwards, crashing painfully into the toilet, before sliding to the floor. She was aware of the restroom door being banged shut with considerable force, behind her.

It had to be Jackson. She knew it was Jackson. But hardly dared to look.

She rested her forehead against the cold, white wall-tiles, panting in fear and confusion. Waiting for Jackson to say something.

'Well I never,' came Jackson's cool, laconic tones. 'Ain't this just the funniest thing?'

Lisa sighed heavily.

She quickly scrabbled to her feet, all the while nursing a sore knee which she had bashed against the china toilet bowl. Then she slowly turned round to meet him, face to face.

Jackson was standing against the door, his arms folded, a sneer curling his lips.

'I'm not here on _your_ account if that's what you're thinking,' Lisa scoffed. 'The artist whose show this is …Charley Robinson … she's a close friend of mine.'

Jackson seemed indifferent. 'Is that so? Well. That's very nice Lisa.'

He paused.

'But I'm much more interested in finding out why a responsible, home-loving, sweet young woman like yourself, is following me and my fiancée?'

'Your fiancée?' Lisa hated herself, the moment she said it.

'Yes Lisa. That's right. My fiancée.'

Then he seemed to remember something. 'Oops. Excuse me,' he mumbled.

He slid the lock on the door firmly into place.

'We don't want to be disturbed now, do we?'

He flashed Lisa a sardonic grin, his eyes an unnerving, penetrating blue.

'Yes. It's the oddest thing. She says she's sure she saw you, only yesterday. Not once. But twice. And then, of course, tonight as well.'

Lisa stared at him, with what she hoped looked like fearless defiance.

Jackson continued. 'I tried to assure her that she might be imagining things. She probably passes hundreds of ditzy little red-heads everyday, and it's very easy to get one face mixed up with another.'

Jackson was advancing stealthily towards her as he spoke.

'Mind you,' he said. 'Even _I_ thought I saw you yesterday, and I'm good at faces … comes with the job … but I figured it had to be some kind of illusion.'

Jackson was now standing directly in front of Lisa, an insolent sneer on his face, his cold, blue eyes never once faltering in their gaze.

Lisa could feel herself shrinking into the wall, almost overwhelmed by his physical proximity.

'You do believe me, don't you Jackson, when I say I had no idea you would be here tonight?' she said. 'This is truly a coincidence.'

'Sure Lise. Course it is. We'll call it _fate_,' Jackson said scornfully. 'But … that's not why we saw you yesterday, is it?'

Lisa knew he was onto her.

'OK. Yes. I was following you,' she conceded.

Jackson's face broke into a smile. 'Good for you, Lise! And how did you manage to do that?'

He moved closer still, so close their bodies were almost touching.

'Tell me everything,' he murmured. 'How you found me … every last little detail.'

Lisa intended to speak, to tell all, but she found herself immediately distracted, her eyes constantly drawn to his lips, which were slightly apart, just inches from her own.

Was he doing this on purpose?

She snapped her eyes away, staring instead at a small patch of travertine-tiled floor, to the left of him.

'I worked out that you were with Beauchamp Finance,' she said.

'And how did you do that?'

'Buckley,' she said simply. 'I went to see him.'

'Ah. Good thinking. So … did he remember me?'

'I had a photo.'

Jackson's face creased into a frown.

'A photo? How?'

'You were caught on the security cameras … in the hotel lobby.'

'I was?'

'Yes … as you … no doubt know … .'

A thought was beginning to evolve in her mind. Was she supposed to find him? Had this been a test of some kind?

'And then?' he prompted. She could feel his eyes roaming her face, moving from her eyes to her mouth. She tried to blank him out. Make her face inscrutable, unreadable.

'And then … I did a little research, and I found out that Beauchamps had recently invested in Mogando.' She could sense him tense a little. 'And, I knew you'd recently been in Mogando. Because … .'

'Because you meddled where you shouldn't,' Jackson said tersely.

'Surely you knew I would look at your damned passport? That's why you left your briefcase open, isn't it?' Lisa snarled, suddenly convinced that this was indeed the truth.

Jackson vehemently shook his head. 'Nope. I thought you'd try to take the tape.'

'I meant to,' she said under her breath.

'Although you weren't going to get away with it.'

'I wouldn't be too sure of that, if I were you Jackson Rippner,' Lisa said venomously, her face flushed with anger. 'You're not half as clever as you like to think you are. And it was really very, very foolish, just to leave that passport lying around. I learned some very interesting things … .'

'Like what?' Jackson jeered. 'That I've been to Mogando? Whoopee.'

'That you also call yourself James Ryder.' She paused, wondering if he was about to interject, but he said nothing. 'And I now know that there's a _Graham_ Ryder who works for Beauchamps. Based in London. So I'm guessing that you operate under _that_ alias too.'

'Come on Lise, that's bullshit. And you know it. You can do a lot better than that,' Jackson said in condescending tones.

He thought for a moment and then suddenly burst into loud, mocking laughter.

'So let's get this straight Lise. You took the Buckley hint, well done, and then, based on your seeing I, or at least some guy called James Ryder, has been to Mogando, you decide, for some inexplicable reason, I must work for Beauchamps. So you head up to New York to …. to do what exactly? We still haven't quite ascertained that, have we?'

'I was coming to New York anyway. On business,' she said, her voice shaking with frustration at his flippant tone. 'The Keefe campaign want to hire me.'

Jackson seemed to flinch a little, but he said nothing.

'And … I thought it might be interesting … to see where you worked. Which is how I came to be following you.'

Jackson remained silent. A troubled expression crept across his face. He pulled back from her, hands on hips, chewing his bottom lip pensively.

'Well, if your objective was to track me down, then I guess it's a job well done,' he said reluctantly.

'Although, for the record,' he added, barely able to suppress the smug triumphalism in his voice, 'I don't actually work for Beauchamps,'

'No,' Lisa said coolly. 'You work for De Bowens.'

Jackson was clearly taken aback. 'What makes you say that?'

'It's obvious,' Lisa smirked. 'You had a folder yesterday, with the De Bowens logo, and you say you're _engaged_ to De Bowen's daughter.'

'Doesn't have to mean I work for her father,' Jackson muttered darkly.

Suddenly there was a shuffling sound, just outside the door, clearly audible above the cacophony of voices beyond the restroom, which had faded to a droning background hum, occasionally punctuated by a louder, roaring laugh or shrieking giggle.

Presumably it was somebody waiting to come in.

Instantly on high alert, Jackson's eyes inched sideways towards the locked door, as he strained to catch the telltale sounds of an eavesdropper.

His apprehension bordered on dread, Lisa realized, and with that came a startling revelation. _He was frightened of the De Bowens._

'But you _do_ work for De Bowens … I'm right, aren't I?' Lisa said in cutting tones, enjoying Jackson's sudden discomfort, even though she was also disconcerted by his fear. 'And they don't know what you really are, do they? Your real life. Your profession. That's your dirty little secret, isn't it?'

Jackson lunged forwards, clapping his hand forcefully across her mouth, cracking her head painfully against the tiles.

He whispered in her ear, his voice suddenly hoarse. 'None of this Lise, is for you to know or think about.'

Lisa desperately tried to twist her face away from his smothering hand.

'So listen up sweetheart,' he added, his voice low and menacing. 'I want you to quit this fucking Nancy Drew crap. Right. Now. It's not clever. It's not funny. And it serves no fucking purpose other than getting _you_ killed quicker.'

Lisa could feel rage boiling up inside of her.

'Do you understand what I'm telling you?' he hissed.

Lisa had manoeuvred her mouth sufficiently to bite down hard on the soft, fleshy side of his hand. Jackson yelped with pain.

She recoiled, expecting him to strike her in return, but instead he simply pulled his hand away and glared, his eyes blazing with hurt and fury.

'Fuck you _Jack_!' Lisa yelled, suddenly not caring who heard her through the restroom door. 'What gives you, the God-given right to stalk me, to play with my life, my emotions …to trash my workplace? You deserved a taste of your own medicine.'

Jackson had suddenly narrowed his eyes and was watching her closely. Lisa first thought he was still consumed with anger, but then she noticed a sneaky smirk, teasing his lips.

Lisa replayed what she had said in her mind, and realized where she had gone wrong.

'When I said you were playing with my _emotions_, it wasn't meant how you think,' she explained, in a slow, steady manner. 'I meant it in the sense of your constant, merciless hounding me and threatening me.'

'Whew. That's a relief,' Jackson said, a smile slowly creeping across his face. 'For one moment there I thought you were getting a girly crush.'

Lisa trembled with shame and loathing. _How dare he._

There was a loud thumping on the door.

Lisa jumped, and was further surprised to find Jackson had pressed close against her, his hand again covering her mouth.

'It's only some poor bugger busting to go,' he whispered. 'But I really can't allow us to be seen to leave together. So keep still. And say nothing.'

They stood close together, in silence.

Someone else had joined the queue outside.

'Still occupied?' came a testy sounding woman.

'Yeah. Someone must be having real bad gut problems,' came a tetchy, deep-voiced reply.

'Well I hope it's not the canapés,' said the testy sounding woman. 'My Eric's not stopped eating since we got here.'

In spite of the tense circumstances, Lisa couldn't help but giggle.

Jackson wrapped his arms tightly around her, squashing her close to his chest, to smother any sound. Lisa could feel his heart pumping, against her ear.

Her head was swimming, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent.

She tried to pull away, but he held her close. 'Quiet Lise,' he murmured.

'This is so rude,' moaned the testy woman. 'Some people have no consideration.'

'I'm gonna go call security,' said the tetchy man. 'It's probably some junkie, shooting up, or whatever it is they like to do these days.'

'Damn him. Just when we were getting cozy,' Jackson whispered.

'You call this cozy?' Lisa said, stamping hard on his foot. He cringed, but then pushed her more firmly against the wall.

There was a further bout of banging on the door.

'Come on out. We can hear you're in there,' came the tetchy man. 'Did you hear that?' he said, clearly addressing the testy woman.

'Sure did Hon,' she moaned.

Jackson smiled. 'Now look what you've gone and done Lisa.'

'Come on. Let's get security,' grunted the testy man.

They both froze, listening intently as the man and woman trotted off, still whinging in unison, their footsteps gradually dissipating, melting into the background hum of the crowd.

The restroom fell silent, except for their breathing; deep, matching breathes.

They were still holding each other, seemingly unable to move.

Lisa didn't dare look at him, but she could sense that Jackson was watching her closely, his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

She could feel his attraction to her, like a palpable force, barely contained. She closed her eyes in rapt expectation.

With quivering fingers, he tenderly stroked her hair, his fingertips softly caressing her neck, her face, then, with a faint groan, he nuzzled his face into her shoulder, his lips warm against her bare skin.

Then he pulled back, inhaling deeply, almost as though he was fighting to breath.

'Lisa,' he whispered. 'Look at me.'

He gently tilted her head upwards, so that his mouth hovered directly above her own.

'I really want to kiss you,' he said, his voice harsh and broken.

'That's … that's not such a good idea,' she stuttered, even though she was sharply aware of an acute pang of mind-reeling arousal surging through her.

This feeling only intensified as Jackson slowly trailed a finger across her cheekbone, then down to her chin, his eyes never once leaving her face.

And then, he brushed her lips softly with his own.

Lisa couldn't help responding. She encircled his neck with one arm, her hand intertwining with his hair, pulling him closer.

He kissed her deeply, with increasing urgency, wrapping her tightly in his arms.

Lisa found herself succumbing, aware only of his warm mouth plundering her own, her heart thumping wildly inside her chest and the heated pleasure which was coursing through her limbs.

There was more thunderous, impatient banging on the door.

Lisa jerked back from Jackson, unable to look him in the face.

_How the hell did that happen?_

'Get a move on, will ya!' came a man's voice. He sounded livid.

Lisa could sense Jackson was still looking at her. He leaned closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

'OK Lise. Plan B. We're going to walk out of here, and act as though we've never met. Is that clear?'

Lisa nodded, awe-struck at how quickly Jackson could switch from gentle and loving to hard and businesslike in an instant.

The angry man continued to pound on the door.

'Lise,' Jackson urged, 'listen to me.'

He grasped her face in his hand, forcing her to meet his eyes.

'This is really important.'

Lisa realized he was deadly serious.

'Whatever you do, don't tell anyone – and I mean _anyone_ – who you are. Better still. Get out of here as fast as you can.'

'I can't just leave. This is my friend's exhibition,' Lisa complained. 'I've hardly seen her.'

Jackson sighed, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall behind her.

'I'm begging you Lise,' he said softly. 'Don't tell them anything but your first name. Or make one up.'

'Who's _them_?' Lisa asked anxiously.

'Everyone. Now let's go,' he said, steering her towards the door.

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa had only just quit the restroom, ensuring she moved off in a different direction to Jackson, when Charley leaped on her and pulled her over to a group of her friends.

Lisa was swamped by an effusion of greetings and small talk, which she fielded with professional expertise, all the while wondering where Jackson had snuck off to.

What would he say to Alex and her father to explain what had clearly been a prolonged absence?

And why had she allowed him to kiss her?

She kept replaying it over and over in her mind, barely able to breath, as she recalled the warm, tingling sensation that had overtaken her senses.

She was jolted out of her thoughts by a waiter approached bearing a tray of drinks. Lisa gratefully received the glass of champagne he offered, drinking it with more gusto than usual.

Charley sidled up to her. 'So you've met the famous George De Bowen … isn't he just a sweetie?'

She grabbed two more champagnes from a passing waiter, thrusting one into Lisa's hand.

Lisa felt a little silly clutching _two _glasses so she downed the first one and deposited the empty glass onto the waiter's tray.

'Did you get to speak with his daughter?' Charley asked eagerly.

'Very briefly.'

'Then you must speak some more! She's an absolute doll!' Charley cried. 'She's already bought _three_ pieces tonight. Come and see!'

Charley dragged Lisa through a throng of champagne-guzzling art-lovers, who were keeping an attentive cluster of champagne waiters extremely busy, clearing glasses and replenishing supplies.

At the far end of the gallery, the crowds had thinned considerably and a number of less jovial types were engaged in more earnest, sober discussion.

Charley showed Lisa a small oval-shaped oil painting, which looked sadly disconsolate amongst the vast, colouful canvases which were more closely associated with Charley's trademark style.

Charley clapped her hands together in girlish glee. 'I can't believe Alex wanted this one … it means such a lot to me.'

The painting comprised a series of colored cubes and spheres, arranged to represent what Lisa could only presume was a large beige woman, seated on a rug.

'My pet Labrador.' Charley's mood had turned strangely sombre. Lisa was surprised to spot tears welling in Charley's eyes. She wasn't generally this sentimental.

Then her eyes shot to the empty champagne glass, dangling from Charley's hand, which perhaps served as some form of explanation.

'There she is!' Charley exclaimed, again grabbing Lisa and pulling her towards a small knot of people who seemed to be moving slowly but surely towards the exit.

Lisa tried to hold Charley back as she recognized the De Bowens bidding farewell to a glamorously attired older woman wearing a voluminous scarlet cape and black feathered hat and a tall, spindly man in a tuxedo.

Luckily, Charley's path was temporarily brought to a halt, as she accosted a passing waiter, snatching a full glass of champagne from his tray.

'That's Alex with her father … who you met before,' she garbled, indicating the De Bowen party with her wine-glass, champagne slopping over the sides onto the floor. 'And that's Joysie Hamilton, a _major_ buyer ... I don't recognize the man …,' Charley said excitedly.

She interrupted her commentary to whisper in Lisa's ear. 'Now's your chance to ask about that chap you've been chasing after. See if he might work for De Bowens after all. You never know.'

Lisa's insides suddenly turned to jelly, as she watched Jackson purposefully stride towards the De Bowens with what looked like a fur stole hanging over his arm.

He flashed Lisa a piercing glance warning her not to advance any further.

But it was too late.

Charley pushed Lisa towards the De Bowens, particularly Alex, who was being helped into her fur stole by Jackson.

Jackson's face had stiffened into a mask of cold politeness, in response to Charley's over-exuberant, champagne-fueled exhortations.

'Oh no! You're not all leaving are you?' Charley cried.

'It's been a resounding success,' George De Bowen said indulgently. 'But needs must.'

'We're off to the beach house in the morning,' Alex explained curtly. She hooked her arm through Jackson's. 'But it's been a pleasure.'

Charley snatched at Alex's arm, swinging her round.

'Alex, this is my dear friend Lisa, the one from Miami that I was telling you about earlier,' she chortled, her face flushed crimson.

Alex paused, eyeing Lisa intently. 'You really are very familiar,' she asked. 'Are you _sure_ we haven't met?'

'Quite sure,' Lisa smiled.

She cast a sidelong look at Jackson, who was subtly trying to usher the De Bowen party out of the gallery, by means of a protective palm pushing Alex gradually forwards and away from Charley and Lisa.

George De Bowen smiled graciously at Lisa.

'Are you staying in New York long?'

Lisa smiled. 'A week.'

She could feel Jackson's eyes boring into her face as she spoke.

'So short a time? That's a shame.'

Charley was leaning heavily against Alex and from the quizzical expression on her face had now latched onto the fact that a handsome, blue-eyed stranger was standing close by.

'Is this the guy you were telling me about?' she drawled, pointing at Jackson. His face was cold and emotionless.

Alex grinned. 'Sure is. This is Jackson.'

Charley froze, spellbound, eyes staring. She stumbled drunkenly towards Jackson, who backed away.

'Jackson!' she breathed, hand outstretched.

Lisa clutched her friend into a tight hug, and tried to lever her away from the De Bowens.

'I'm sorry … she's a bit worse for wear,' she gasped. Lisa stole a quick glance in Jackson's direction, and was disheartened to see a cold, murderous glint alight in his eyes.

She had to get Charley out of here. And fast.

Thick tears were rolling down Charley's cheeks. 'That was his name,' she sniveled.

Lisa's heart was pounding inside her chest. _Please don't say it_, she silently begged.

'That was the name of my little dog, the one I painted,' Charley continued, the tears now falling thick and fast.

Lisa felt faint with relief, and also with a sudden weariness which flooded her body – the effects of alcohol and high tension.

Alex laughed. 'Well isn't that uncanny?' She turned to Jackson. 'I've just bought that painting.'

'Hysterical,' he said, in dry, flat tones.

A black-suited, clean-cut young man walked rapidly towards them. He approached Jackson, informing him that their car was waiting outside.

'Come on,' Jackson said briskly to his companions. 'Let's get out of here.'

'Where are they going Lisa?' Charley whined.

'Home Charley. Which is where _you _should be going too,' Lisa said primly.

'Would you like some assistance?' George De Bowen asked politely.

'I'll be fine,' Lisa said.

'Are you quite sure? We can easily accommodate you.' George turned to the clean-cut young man. 'You brought the limo?'

The clean-cut young man nodded his assent.

Lisa noted Jackson was looking away from them – his way, she felt, of warning her not to accept George's offer.

'That's very kind of you,' Charley enthused.

'No, no, Charley,' Lisa countered. 'You still have other guests to say goodbye to.'

She scanned the rapidly emptying room. A few partygoers remained upstairs, watching the dwindling crowd below. Lisa couldn't help but notice that there were other similarly young, clean-cut guys in sharp black suits, and wondered just how much security George De Bowen and his daughter required.

If they knew anything at all of the talents of Jackson, they needn't have bothered, she thought wryly.

'I'm not sure Miss Robinson's in a fit state for further conversation,' George said with an avuncular smile. His hand patted Lisa's, much in the manner of an over-affectionate yet patronizing elderly uncle.

Alex was already guiding Charley out of the gallery.

'There's plenty of room for you too,' George said, his eyes twinkling.

'Thank you, thank you very much, but … but I'm meeting up with a friend,' Lisa blurted, desperate to get away.

'Well, at least let us take you to wherever it is you're headed,' he persisted.

'Come on George. Let's go,' Jackson interjected. 'Alex is tired.'

'But we can't just leave this sweet young thing defenseless and alone. That's hardly chivalrous behavior, Jackson.'

'I'm perfectly capable Sir,' Lisa said, increasingly irritated. 'Really I am.'

'She says she's fine,' Jackson said. 'Aren't you Lise?'

_Lise_. Why had he said _Lise_?

Luckily George De Bowen hadn't noticed. 'Well, you can at least give us directions to Charley's home. Frankly I don't think the girl's capable of coherent speech.'

Lisa conceded, following George and Jackson towards the exit.

She hadn't dared look at Jackson.

She still didn't really understand why he so wanted to keep her identity under wraps. Surely if the De Bowens were to know that she was Lisa Reisert, manager of the Lux Atlantic hotel in Miami, and yes, earlier that year she had been involved, against her will, in an attempted assassination on the Deputy Secretary for Homeland Security, they wouldn't automatically associate Jackson with that crime? Why should they?

His paranoia didn't add up.

Outside the gallery, they headed for a waiting limousine. Alex and Charley were already seated inside, with Charley lolling on Alex's shoulder, fast asleep.

Jackson stopped.

'Hold on,' he said. 'I had a jacket.'

He dived back inside to retrieve it. George gestured to Lisa, to get into the limo. But just as she was about to do so, she heard her cellphone rattling around in her purse.

'Please excuse me,' she said to George, standing aside. She pulled the phone out. She didn't recognize the number displayed, but she instinctively knew it had to be Jackson.

She answered the phone as chirpily as possible. 'Hi there,' she said brightly. 'I was just on my way.'

'That's good Lise. Real good,' Jackson said. 'Now listen up. Whatever you do, don't get in that car. Make up some excuse. Anything.'

'That's great,' Lisa said in jovial tones, meanwhile wondering what the hell she could say, aware that George De Bowen was still waiting patiently by the limo. 'I'm still at the show … would you rather I stayed put?'

'Walk away Lise,' Jackson said. 'Just walk away. I'll come and find you.'

'You don't need to do that,' Lisa said impetuously. 'I'll be fine on my own.'

She turned away from George and the clean-cut young man who was now standing beside him.

'Where's Jackson got to?' Alex was calling from inside the car.

'Come on Lisa. Trust me. This once,' Jackson said urgently.

Lisa was silent a moment. She could hear Jackson's tense breathing at the other end of the phone.

'For fuck's sake Lisa. Get moving!' he shouted.

'So it's just a few blocks away?' she asked, resuming her former friendly manner.

'Head right and walk straight till you hit 9th Avenue, then head for West 23rd Street. Turn left and carry on walking. Cross 8th, and you'll see a bar, not far from the Chelsea Hotel. There's a YMCA just across the street. You can't miss it. Go grab yourself a Seabreeze Lise, and sit tight.'

'I'm on my way,' she said.

Lisa killed the call and turned back to George De Bowen.

Had it been too obvious? This wasn't exactly the slickest of plans.

'My friend's suggested we meet close by, so I'll hang around. But thanks very much for your kind offer,' she said, breezily.

She looked in on Charley who was already snoring. Alex looked a little pained at the dead weight rumbling against her.

'It was very nice to meet you,' Lisa said.

Alex smiled wanly.

Lisa shook hands cordially with George De Bowen, quickly telling him Charley's address. She then tripped away, down the road, as fast as she could, without actually breaking into a run.

Why was Jackson so adamant that she didn't get in the car with them? They seemed harmless enough. And he had no qualms about leaving Charley in their care.

She walked quickly, allowing the darkness to envelop her. She could hear footsteps in the distance and the burble of voices. She imagined Jackson had returned to the car.

She soon reached the junction of West 24th and busy Ninth Avenue. She headed right. Just as Jackson had told her. And then turned left onto West 23rd, which was similarly active, even for this time of night. She carried on walking, ignoring a panhandler who called after her. It was too late and too dark to be generous.

Her mind was teeming with worries. Had she done the right thing? Should she have left Charley alone, and in that state?

But this was ridiculous. What could be safer than the De Bowens? They were a hugely respected family. George headed up one of the USA's most esteemed financial corporations.

She stopped at Eighth Avenue, waiting to cross.

This was all Jackson's fault. All because he was paranoid that she might blab to his pretty little fiancée, or give any cause for alarm about _his_ character to his prospective Daddy-in-law.

It seemed very petty. And why should she be involved?

She could see the Chelsea Hotel in the distance, and close by, on the same side of the road, a small bar. She wondered if she should even bother meeting Jackson, particularly after what had happened in the restroom … .

Suddenly she heard footsteps rapidly approach from behind. A strong hand grabbed her arm, pulling her to an abrupt halt.

Jackson was panting.

'You did good,' he said.

'Did I indeed?' Lisa said haughtily. 'Well I'd like an explanation.'

'It's best you know as little as possible,' Jackson said, hailing a cab which slowed and stopped a few metres ahead of them. 'Come on,' he said, dragging her towards the cab,

'Get off me,' she protested, breaking free. 'I'm not going anywhere until you at least tell me what's going on.'

Jackson sighed, exasperated.

'Lisa. Please believe me when I say that it would do _neither_ of us any good if they … or at least _he_ … were to know who you really are.'

Lisa chilled. She knew, with the utmost certainty, that Jackson was being sincere, and this worried her hugely.

'_He_ being George De Bowen,' Lisa said.

'Yes. He being George De Bowen.'

'I don't get it,' she said weakly.

'Which is why we need to talk,' Jackson said, coaxing her towards him with an outstretched hand. 'Lisa. Please.'

The cab driver hooted his horn, urging them to hurry up.

'Come. Give me your hand,' he said softly.

_I am a friend, and am not come to punish,_ Lisa thought ruefully.

Except the fierce man of bone had promised not to be savage … but he'd killed his maiden, all the same.

But she wanted to trust him. So very badly.

Lisa placed her hand in Jackson's and got into the cab.


	9. The Tin Man

**Author's Note: **I had a bit of a disaster this week as my computer crashed and died, and has been dispatched to the repair shop. Unfortunately I lost the first draft of this chapter, and have to had to rewrite it from memory on someone else's machine, so I hope it's still serviceable. I preferred the first version, but that's maybe because it's gone forever! Still, this is a key 'link' chapter, important for building the Lisa/Jackson relationship dynamic. Arguably Chapters 9 and 10 are the 'calm' (of sorts) before the storm, as you'll soon see.

As always, thank you very, very much for the great reviews – sincerely appreciated! I love reading the plot speculation, and I'm glad you enjoy the Lisa/Jackson interaction. LOTS more to come throughout the rest of the story in subsequent chapters!

**Disclaimer:** This also applies to Chapter Eight, because I stupidly forgot to write a disclaimer: I own nothing &c.

**CHAPTER NINE – The Tin Man**

Despite the late hour, there was plenty of traffic slowing the cab's progress as it headed up 7th Avenue, passing Penn Station, on course for Times Square.

'Where are we going?' Lisa asked, a little frightened by the grim scowling expression on Jackson's face. 'Where are you taking me?'

'Anywhere you want,' Jackson murmured.

'You said you would offer me an explanation. Or was that just an excuse?' Lisa asked indignantly.

Jackson leaned towards her. 'An excuse for what?'

Lisa didn't quite know. She snapped her head away from his penetrating gaze, and then realized, to her annoyance, that they were still holding hands. She pulled her hand away, resting it demurely on her knee.

'Anyway,' Jackson said. 'This is hardly the place for us to talk properly.'

'I don't see why not? You held me hostage on a plane once, remember? You weren't so shy then,' Lisa retorted.

Jackson smiled. 'OK Lisa. You win. Let's just drive around this city aimlessly and see where we end up? How's that for a plan?'

It was warm in the cab. Almost stultifying. Lisa closed her eyes, aware that the many glasses of champagne she had consumed at the art show were having an unmistakable effect. She could feel a surge of alcohol-fuelled adrenalin surge through her body, so fast, she almost gasped.

'I think it's best I get back to Charley's,' she moaned. 'I'm feeling a bit groggy.'

'No way,' Jackson said curtly. 'That's out of bounds for now.'

'So where do you suggest then?' Lisa asked snidely. 'Your place?'

Jackson laughed. 'Problematic.'

'I wasn't being serious,' Lisa said pointedly.

'I know.'

They fell into silence.

Lisa had never actually envisaged Jackson living somewhere. The thought struck her as a curious one. No sooner had he dismissed the notion of his place – and she hadn't been serious when she suggested it, that was true – than she was burning to see it.

And why was it problematic? It could only be because there was someone else living there too.

Alex, she thought rather sourly.

But then again, if he lived with Alex, why had she been waiting for him at that café in Hanover Street?

'Why is it problematic?' she blurted.

Jackson regarded her thoughtfully. 'I don't live with her, if that's what you mean.'

Lisa flushed scarlet. 'That's not what I meant at all,' she protested.

Jackson's eyes were shining, reflecting the multiple lights blinking from the giant neon billboards in Times Square.

The cab driver asked for directions.

'OK Lise,' Jackson said. 'What are we going to do?'

Lisa sighed. 'Take Broadway!' she yelled to the driver, then to Jackson, 'I don't care what _you_ think. I want to go to Charley's. I'm worried about her.'

XXXXXXXXX

However, as their cab pulled into Charley's street, it was soon clear that they couldn't stop at Charley's apartment block. The De Bowen's limousine was parked directly outside and the young, clean-cut security detail from the art show was carrying a comatose Charley towards the main entrance.

'Don't stop!' Jackson commanded the cab driver.

He turned to Lisa. 'Get down,' he whispered urgently. They both ducked out of sight.

'This is silly,' Lisa muttered.

'It's entirely sensible, believe me,' Jackson said, through gritted teeth. 'Take the next left!' Jackson bellowed to the driver.

The driver did as Jackson told him. Jackson sat upright again, peering through the windows. Somewhere caught his eye.

He demanded the cab pull over. He paid the fare while Lisa hauled herself out of the cab, still feeling distinctly nervy and suspicious.

Jackson followed soon after.

'I saw a bar,' he said, hooking his arm through Lisa's and steering her a short distance down the street. She instantly withdrew her arm from his, and traipsed after him instead, arms folded defensively across her chest.

'Jackson,' she said in complaining tones. 'Why are you so worried about my being around De Bowen anyway? I know not to say anything incriminating.'

'If you were put in a spot, he'd know you were lying,' Jackson said.

'I'm a good liar,' Lisa said peevishly. She was beginning to feel very tired.

Jackson chuckled. 'No you're not Lise. You're crap.'

Lisa was about to refute this claim, but Jackson had walked away from her, into the bar he had indicated moments earlier.

She followed, a glum expression on her face.

XXXXXXXXXX

'You have a very low opinion of my capacity for discretion,' Lisa said sniffily, as they settled themselves into a dark corner of a low-lit, narrow bar with rustic wooden tables, shabby décor and a strong odour of potent ale. The bar wasn't doing much business, despite it being a Saturday night.

'You forget. I'm the manager of one of America's classiest hotels … a job which requires an abundance of tact, tolerance and resourcefulness,' she added with an acerbic smile.

Jackson ordered a beer for himself, while Lisa had to plump for a vodka and grapefruit juice – this was not the type of bar for cocktails. A waitress brought them a small bowl of over-salted pistachio nuts which Jackson instantly pushed aside.

'Never touch nuts in bars. More piss than nut,' he muttered.

Lisa wondered what the hell he could be going on about, but decided that they had more pressing matters still to discuss.

'So come on Jackson. Please tell me why you refuse to credit me with even a modicum of intelligence,' Lisa asked again.

Jackson took a long drink of his beer, then pushed his hair away from his forehead. Lisa noticed he looked as tired as she felt.

'One.You've been drinking. And two. Your big problem's Charley,' he said. 'If she decided to further elaborate on her introduction of you to the De Bowens, we'd be screwed.'

'That's hardly likely to happen Jackson. Did you see the state of her? I doubt she remembers her own name, let alone mine,or any other _fascinating_ details for that matter!' Lisa said scathingly.

Jackson laughed.

'It's not funny,' Lisa continued, sipping at her vodka and grapefruit. She screwed up her nose in distaste. It was a little bitter for her liking.

'And I still can't really fathom, Jackson, exactly why George De Bowen would instantly associate _me_, Lisa Reisert, with the Charles Keefe affair, and then automatically connect me to you too. My role in the business was shut down pretty darned quickly in the media – as you no doubt know. It's past history.'

Jackson sighed in frustration. 'And how do you think that happened Lise? Do you really think _I _had the power to shut down the case against me? To … to close down all the media coverage? I'm just a middleman for God's sake. I take orders.'

Lisa couldn't help but note the earnest seriousness in his face.

'So you're just yet another good dog,' she said, with a twisted, sardonic smile, which failed to brighten their mood.

Jackson gazed into his beer. 'On the Keefe project, _yes_. I was brought on board late in the game.'

Lisa snorted in derision. 'You followed me for eight weeks before, Jackson,' she said. 'That's hardly _late_.'

'No Lisa. On these major league projects, eight weeks is last minute. The hit on Keefe was planned from the moment he was nominated for office.'

Lisa shuddered.

'I'd been out of the loop, working in Europe and Central Asia. Ostensibly on De Bowens business,' Jackson explained. He paused, then added, as if by way of explanation, 'I'm global vice-president, new business acquisitions.'

'Whew … what a fancy title,' Lisa said drolly.

Jackson smiled wanly. 'It's a pretty fancy job ... and it's the perfect cover.'

'For what you really do.'

'Yes. For what I really do.'

Lisa's head was thumping with tension – the magnitude of what Jackson was telling her. Not to mention the copious glasses of champagne she'd consumed at the art show.

She eyed her vodka and grapefruit juice dubiously. At least it took the _edge_ off this whole ghastly experience … kept her from succumbing to the pent-up hysteria she could feel lurking within her.

Jackson peered at her over his beer glass. His eyes a bright, electric blue.

Lisa struggled to maintain eye contact. She took a deep breath, as she continued to try to piece together the import of what Jackson was telling her.

'So … you work for De Bowens, in a _double_ capacity,' she said tentatively.

'Go on,' he said, keeping his eyes firmly trained on her face.

'Which means George De Bowen is your boss, not just in your role as global business affairs, or whatever it is you do, or pretend to do, but … but the other jobs too.'

'Go on,' he urged.

Lisa felt close to tears. 'This is horrible.' She shook her head in disbelief. 'De Bowens is one of the most respected companies in America.'

'Which is why any dirty work I do on their behalf can never be traced back to the company,' Jackson said with a smile of bitter resignation. 'If George knew who you were, he would have known that we had some … _connection_, beyond … beyond the job.'

Jackson's voice seemed to dry up a little. He drank a little beer and then continued. 'Which would be very dangerous.'

'Because he would have expected me to freak out when I saw you.'

'That's right.'

'But … you forget Jackson, that you scare the shit out of me,' Lisa remonstrated. 'Wouldn't he just assume that you had threatened me, forced me to shut up?'

'But you would have still seen me representing his company, as the man who is marrying his daughter … a link would be made between me and him. Between Jackson Rippner, or John Doyle as I came to be known, the guy who managed to evade the law in the Keefe plot, and De Bowens, the stalwart of Wall Street. That would have been a little too close for comfort. Too risky.'

There was a long silence as Lisa pondered what this meant. 'But you came to Miami, representing De Bowens,' she said finally. 'Surely he'd have known where you were headed. What hotel.'

'George was out of the country. I came down, kind of semi-officially I guess, with a guy from Beauchamps. We were working together on a new target,' Jackson said simply.

'Ira Gershon,' Lisa breathed.

Jackson frowned. 'I don't want to talk about this.' He quickly drained his beer. 'You already know far too much for your own safety. They'll kill you if they suspect you know any of this.'

'So you work for Beauchamps too?'

'I used to ... Lisa, please, you've got to let this drop.'

Lisa felt her head was about to burst. 'But none of this makes any sense. Why would a _bank _want to kill the Deputy Head of Homeland Security?'

Jackson looked increasingly twitchy. 'Right. Stop this now,' he pleaded. 'I've told you what you wanted. So let it go.' Wearily he buried his head in his hands, then raised his head, staring at Lisa with an oddly wistful expression in his eyes, his hands still clenching his hair. 'I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance,' he said regretfully.

'But instead, if what you're saying is true, then you maybe saved my life,' Lisa said, the full impact of his revelations dawning on her.

Jackson took a deep breath. 'Both our lives Lisa.'

It all felt too much. She couldn't hold back the sudden sob which erupted from her. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

Jackson looked around the bar, a little embarrassed. Then he patted her hand in what Lisa saw as a vague gesture of comfort.

She flinched.

'Don't patronise me,' she hissed. 'This is all your fault.'

'Hey Lise, I didn't ask you to come chasing after me to New York,' he argued. 'That was your own stupid fucked up little Miss Power Ranger mission, nothing to do with me. I didn't make you do it.'

'Yes you damn well did,' Lisa snarled. 'And you wanted to make a fool of me, because I'd made a fool out of you. But you didn't think of the consequences.'

He sighed deeply. 'OK, maybe I didn't.' And then, almost as an aside. 'And I'm paying a heavy price too, believe me.'

A muscle was twitching in his cheek involuntarily.

'But look Lisa. You walked straight into the lion's den tonight. There was nothing I could do about that. So it's become a question of damage control. We need a plan.'

'Damage control? What the hell does that mean?' Lisa said, her face screwed up in disgust. 'You really are ice-cold Jackson, aren't you? No amount of euphemistic corporate lingo can alter the fact that your intrusion into my life might be deadly. You just don't care.'

'That's not fair.'

'It's perfectly fair. You don't care who you hurt, who you kill, who you involve in your pernicious little life. It's just business to you.'

'Yes. It is just _business_,' Jackson said, goading her further. 'The business of survival.'

'Such a shame you don't give your victims the same consideration,' Lisa said archly.

'Oh shut it Lisa. You're so fucking sentimental it hurts.'

'Sentimental? Because I don't share your casual attitude to _death_? Or is that just the death of other people?' she said nastily.

'Life is cheaper than you think Lise,' Jackson remarked cynically. 'And that includes ours too.'

'It's so easy for you,' Lisa cried, the tears flowing thick and fast now. 'You don't love anyone. I doubt you've _ever_ loved anyone, or ever will. You don't have to be scared what might happen to others, because of what you know, who might know you.'

'Well, as always Lisa, you have absolutely no idea what you're talking about,' Jackson said in acid tones.

He grabbed her vodka, an irascible look on his face. 'Have a drink Lise,' he jeered.

But she waved it away.

He eyed the vodka doubtfully, sniffed it, then downed it. He slammed the empty glass onto the table.

'You see Lise. You've got me all wrong. My philosophy's very simple. We live, we die, and we're lucky to be remembered by our grandchildren – if we even have any. So why bother with high-faluting moral codes? No-one's ever going to remember what you or I ever did in our lives anyway. The things we said. The things we thought about, loved or hated. So just get on with looking after number one and the few people we happen to care about.'

Lisa listened, horrified.

Jackson continued. 'It's only the lives of the famous and the notorious anyone ever remembers … And, a few of those who die in exceptional circumstances. Which, I guess, is where someone like me can come in.'

'What do you mean?' Lisa asked, appalled.

'Masterminding to the finest degree the means and manner of someone's death … it's quite a tribute really, to that person. Does wonders for their legacy.' Jackson smiled, a brief, savage smile which chilled Lisa to the core. 'I can't imagine my own death being so meticulously planned and arranged by somebody else. My death will be short, sharp and nasty. Yours will probably be long, lingering and miserable. Anything else would be an honour.'

Jackson looked smug, but Lisa felt sure there was something else, something fearful which flickered in his cold, blue eyes – a passing shadow.

She realised she was trembling.

'I need another drink,' she said in low tones.

'You say that now?' he asked, exasperated. 'Well no. You've had enough. We both have. And we should instead be working out where you're going to spend your little holiday in New York Lisa, or how you're going to get home to Miami, rather than waste time yakking about juvenile moral pieties.'

'Get me another drink Jackson,' Lisa insisted, her eyes hard and blazing.

Rather than summon the waitress, Jackson went to the bar.

She _had_ drunk enough already, Lisa knew that. But she wanted to dampen the growing sense of panic which was welling up inside her.

How could she have ever kissed this man? This monster?

Jackson soon returned with fresh drinks. He eyed her warily as he sat down. Almost as though he expected her to explode into a white-hot ball of wrath.

'Don't you ever think about what death actually _is_ though, Jackson. There's no return, no second chance. You deprive people of that choice. Who cares if their demise is a grandly orchestrated, highly resourced _assignment_? One second they're alive, the next there's nothing,' she argued. 'I can't believe you can take it so lightly.'

'Oh, I've had my moments Lise,' Jackson grimaced. 'You don't live my life without a few close shaves.'

'And what have you learned? Nothing.'

'Wrong Lise. I've learned it's a really bad idea to get yourself killed … which is why we need to focus on your little problem,' Jackson said, increasingly impatient.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'I've been trying to tell you Lise. _You can't stay at Charley's_.'

But Lisa wasn't in the mood for focusing on Jackson's agenda. She was still seething. How could he be so callous? So heartless?

'You infuriate me, you know that Jackson?' she railed, realising that they had caught the attention of a couple of surly looking guys who were loitering by the bar.

But she was too enraged to pipe down for _their_ benefit.

Jackson rolled his eyes. 'Do I look like I care Lise? I'm trying to save your precious little skin here, and all you can do is whinge. Look sweetheart,' he said disdainfully, 'if you'd seen even an iota of the fucked-up shit I've had to, you'd soon dump your naive, sappy, suburban little homilies on life, and values, and all that fucking crap. Shit you've picked up from cheap pop psychology books from Wal-Mart and daytime TV.'

'What the hell are you talking about? You're deranged.'

'People like you make me sick,' he said in mocking tones. His eyes were a chill icy-blue, staring relentlessly at his prey.

'People like me?'

'Yeah … you. Daddy's little golden girl, with the charmed life. I know your sort.'

'And what sort is that then Jackson?' Lisa asked grudgingly.

'Oh … the cutesy graduation photo. The dinky cheerleader pom-pons. You're a trophy girl, a social sycophant. One of life's little appeasers.'

Lisa blinked back the tears as Jackson warmed to his rant.

'And you'll live your nicely turgid life … the high achieving corporate yes-girl, the marriage to some bland cock-ass with prospects, the kids, the house. Never hot or cold. Just tepid … You've never really suffered, and you never really will. Unless it's to die from boredom.'

Lisa couldn't take this onslaught any longer. She sprang to her feet, pushing the table into his lap, and threw her drink into his face.

He blanched, staring at her in shock, vodka and grapefruit juice trickling down his face. He roughly wiped the drink away with his sleeve.

Lisa saw he was shaking with anger.

She grabbed her purse and ran out of the bar, as fast as her legs could carry her, stumbling clumsily against the doorway.

Once outside she slowed to a walking pace. She knew he'd follow anyway.

Sure enough, moments later, Jackson was at her side. He grasped her arm and forced her to face him and was about to speak, but Lisa got there first.

'Never suffered? You seriously think I've never suffered,' she screeched, not caring where she was or who heard them. 'You have a very selective memory Jackson Rippner.'

Jackson cringed a little.

She rapidly walked on, past the bar and the neighbouring shops and an apartment block, forcing him to follow. And then she stopped. Abruptly.

She turned to face him.

'Did you really mean all that?' she continued. 'Because it really hurt.'

Jackson sighed wearily, head bowed.

'And you know the worst thing Jackson? I don't actually hate you, even though I've tried real hard. Even though you're such a fucking asshole. But the thing is, you could be really great, do you know that?' Suddenly, her eyes were glistening with tears.

Jackson watched her with steady, blue eyes, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully.

'You can be sweet and charming. And witty. Even sensitive! The type of man you could really, really like, even … even fall for … but it's just empty bullshit. _You_ are empty bullshit. You're just an actor. A charming, evil actor.'

Jackson looked a little shaken.

But then he seemed to make a deliberate effort to collect his thoughts. A cold gleam returned to his eye.

'An actor you say … well ain't that an interesting thought Lisa?' He smirked. 'And you might well be right … I was once in a school play you know. The Wizard of Oz. Got rave reviews.'

'Let me guess. The cowardly lion?' Lisa snapped.

Jackson grinned. 'Oh no Lise. The tin man. Who else?'

'Oh. How very apt,' Lisa sneered. 'The man with no heart. God, I bet you love that, don't you?'

Jackson smiled smugly, but was then knocked off-balance as Lisa lurched forwards, smashing him against the wall of the apartment building they were standing outside.

Jackson fell heavily, clearly stunned by Lisa's surprise assault.

Lisa crushed against him, her eyes feverish.

'Except its crap, Jackson. You _have _a heart. Here,' she rasped. She slid her hand under his jacket, then ripped into his shirt, tearing a button off in the process, to place her hand on his chest, just above where his heart was beating. His chest was warm and hard beneath her touch.

His mouth gaped open in astonishment.

She pushed him away from her, with all the strength she could muster, not caring that his head bounced painfully against the bricks behind him, and eyed him coldly, panting heavily.

Jackson rubbed his head, grinning like an over-excited school-boy. 'Fuck me Lisa. That was something else.'

'You wish,' she murmured.

She stomped away purposefully from Jackson, towards Charley's street, privately cheering her own audacity. She knew he was following of course, but this time she decided not to turn back.

Better all round if she just walked away.

XXXXXXXXXXX

She came to a stop outside Charley's apartment block.

She frantically searched for the house key in her purse. But where was the darned thing? She continued to rummage, aware that Jackson was fast approaching. Where could it have got to? Had she left it in Charley's apartment when she left for the show earlier?

She looked up at the top floor apartment. The lights were off, so presumably Charley was fast asleep. And no doubt sleeping the sleep of a dead man.

Suddenly a hand – Jackson's hand – grabbed her from behind, pulling her into the shadow of a neighboring doorway.

'Jackson!' she shrieked, but the sound was muffled by his palm. She managed to snake her arm under his, pushing his hand away from her face so she could breathe.

'What the …?'

'Shut it Lise,' Jackson insisted. He pinioned her to the door with an outstretched arm.

He was peering cautiously out of the doorway, watching a young man in a dark suit trip down the steps leading from Charley's apartment block.

Lisa instantly recognised him as the clean-cut young man who had been with the De Bowens – the guy she figured was their personal security guard.

Her heart beat a little faster.

The young man paused for a moment, fishing a carton of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. He lit a cigarette, inhaling a long, nonchalant drag before finally moving off, towards Broadway.

'Did he see us?' Lisa whispered urgently to Jackson beside her.

'No chance. Brody's a bit of a tool,' he said in deprecating tones. 'But what has he been doing to take him so damned long?'

'You mean … you think … he's killed Charley?' Lisa asked, wide-eyed in terror.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Jackson scoffed. 'We're not mindless thugs you know. There's no point killing someone for the sake of it.'

'But you said_ I_ was in danger, therefore … .'

'Stop worrying about Charley and start focusing on yourself. Let's get your stuff and get out of there,' Jackson said.

'I can't,' Lisa said mutely.

'What do you mean you can't?'

'I can't get in. I've mislaid the key,' she said in a very small voice.

'Oh for fuck's sake,' Jackson said. 'Well you can do without then.'

He started to pull her up the street.

Lisa slunk out of his grip and marched purposefully towards the main entrance to Charley's apartment block.

'What about Charley?' Lisa cried, incensed that Jackson had the effrontery to consider leaving her friend in harm's way.

'Let her sleep the drink off, and we can contact her in the morning,' he said dispassionately. 'By then I'll know if we've got a more serious problem on our hands.'

'I'm not leaving her here on her own Jackson,' Lisa said in firm, decided tones. 'She's my friend. Now I realise that friendship is an alien concept to someone like you … .'

Jackson cut in to what he feared was yet another lecture on personal ethics. 'Alright Lise. Have it your own way. We'll find a way to get in,' he said. 'You can try and buzz the apartment, but I bet she won't answer … she looked out for the count.'

Lisa set to pressing the intercom connecting to Charley's apartment, in the hope that she could wake her. But after five full minutes, there was still no response, and Jackson was looking increasingly impatient.

'Can you break in?' Lisa asked.

Jackson fiddled with the lock. 'Nope. Not this type. Let's just buzz the other apartments until someone answers.'

'No … I've got a better idea,' Lisa said. She had spotted a young couple sauntering arm in arm towards them. The young girl stopped to retrieve what Lisa suspected might be a key from her purse.

Lisa leant against the front door and pulled Jackson close.

'Kiss me,' she said in hushed tones.

Jackson was startled, but didn't have a chance to speak, as Lisa wrapped her arms tightly around him and kissed him fiercely on the mouth. He instantly responded, kissing her passionately in return. So hard neither could breathe.

Lisa felt light-headed, lost in his embrace, savouring the warm glow of excitement which flooded her body.

'Excuse me,' came a polite but firm voice beside them. It was the young girl – part of the young couple – who was brandishing a key and clearly wanting to get in.

Lisa quickly pulled apart from Jackson, feigning surprise.

'Oh! I'm so sorry,' she said, seemingly embarrassed.

The young couple unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

'Are you coming in?' Lisa asked Jackson. She smiled appealingly at the couple.

Jackson grinned and followed.

'I'm staying with Charley Robinson,' Lisa said to the couple, as the four of them crossed the foyer to the elevator. They all stepped inside.

'Awesome,' squealed the girl excitedly. 'Charley's really cool. Tell her Minna says Hi.'

'Will do,' Lisa said cheerily.

The young couple disappeared, exiting the elevator at the second floor. Jackson and Lisa were left alone.

'Awesome,' Jackson said softly.

'Don't make fun,' Lisa said primly.

Jackson's eyes were burning bright blue. 'I wasn't Lise. I meant it. That was fucking awesome.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Outside Charley's apartment, they encountered the same problem. Charley wasn't able, it seemed, to answer the door.

Lisa slumped wearily against the wall, her head swirling drunkenly.

'What now?' she sighed.

Jackson was staring at the door, a bemused look on his face.

'This is tricky,' he said. 'You see this door I _can_ open. No problem. But I have to be careful.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well. Its workings are minute. Very, very sophisticated. Your friend's a paranoid little lady,' he said, studying the lock carefully. 'And then, what if the lock's wired to blow?'

'Are you serious?' Lisa asked, aghast at the thought .

Jackson shrugged. 'There has to be some reason Brody was hanging out here for so long. It's unlikely. But you never know.'

Lisa could feel a combination of exhaustion and tension beginning to take its toll on her.

More than anything she felt like lying down in a cool, dark room. Blanking out the world and its worries.

Blanking out this man who entranced her one minute, and repelled her the next. Stirring her into an emotional stew.

She could feel his eyes intently watching her.

'What is it?' she asked, suddenly fearful.

Jackson approached, raising his hand to her ear.

'What are you doing?' she yelped, backing away.

'Your earring,' he murmured.

Lisa was wearing a pair of gold sleepers.

'I need one of your earrings,' he said, his hand encasing one of her ears. 'I can use this to pick the lock. It needs a fine tool.'

He moved closer and delicately removed one of the gold sleepers.

'Did that hurt?' he asked tenderly.

'No …,' she breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from his face, mentally reliving.the feel of his lips on her own.

He smiled, cradling her face with one hand and inclining her closer still. Then, to her surprise, he gently caressed her naked earlobe with his tongue, before enveloping it in his warm mouth.

She gasped in pleasure.

'Just in case I hurt you,' he whispered.

He stared at her, seemingly rooted to the spot. Then he leaned forwards and kissed her softly on the neck, just below her ear. Lisa held her breath, her stomach flip-flopping blissfully.

'We've got to stop doing this,' she whispered, falling against him, so that their foreheads were touching.

'I know,' he said with a rueful smile. 'You'll be the death of me Lise. Do you know that?'

'Just open the door,' Lisa choked, gently pushing him away.

He reluctantly did as she asked and started to pick the lock, using her earring, with fumbling fingers. But it all seemed to get the better of him. He leaned his forehead against the door.

He tried again, frowning in concentration. He seemed to be counting.

'This is darned fiddly,' he said, under his breath.

And then there was a tiny click.

Jackson jumped back, forcing Lisa behind him.

They waited a few moments, and then Jackson advanced forwards, pushing open the door.

'Stay put,' he ordered.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa impatiently waited for Jackson to return.

She tried to focus on the crisis in hand … where, for example, she and Charley could hide out for the night. And it probably was the one night. Jackson was just being cautious. And rightly so.

But no sooner did she summon up his image or recall his name, than she found it almost impossible to subdue the rising tide of excitement which bubbled up inside her.

She reprimanded herself for thinking, feeling like a love-struck teenager, but she was finding it impossible to banish thoughts of what had passed between them just minutes ago, and earlier that evening.

She simply couldn't help herself.

Sure, she kind of hated him, an awful lot of the time. He said and did monstrous things. Unforgivable things. But she felt sure, she hoped, there was more to him than the callous vagaries of his profession and his cheap self-justifications.

And of course, she knew she was attracted to him. Inexorably. Overwhelmingly. And it was an attraction she knew to be mutual, visceral, all-encompassing.

And increasingly hard to resist. For both of them.

Just the thought of his lips sliding across her skin, softly devouring her, was enough to transport her into a state of stomach-clenching breathlessness.

But she had to stay cool.

Surely she realized that any further involvement with this man, this creature, was a huge mistake? She shouldn't, she couldn't allow herself to fall in deeper than she already was – which she readily acknowledged, was already deep enough.

She should never forget.

Not only was he a hardened killer, but he happened to be engaged to another woman.

And not any woman. The daughter of George De Bowen.

The thought chilled her.

Why was Jackson taking so long? Had something happened?

Suddenly Lisa was less keen to stand outside in the hallway, facing an elevator which she feared might snap open at any given moment, to reveal Brody or De Bowen himself – come to silence her forever.

The apartment block was eerily quiet and a flickering light in the corridor leading to a neighboring apartment was further kindling her state of deep unease.

She decided to follow Jackson into Charley's apartment.

XXXXXXXXXX

It was pitch black.

Lisa held her breath, aware that a cold rush of nervous apprehension was coursing through her. She quietly closed the door behind her, not certain if this was wise. What if she needed to make a run for it?

She could hear the deep, shushing breaths of Charley asleep on her sofa-bed in the living room.

Removing her shoes, Lisa padded through the apartment, checking each room for intruders … and Jackson, who seemed to have disappeared.

She stood stock-still. The only sound she could hear was her own heart, pumping furiously within her chest.

Lisa finally tried the spare room, anxiously pushing open the door, before stepping inside. Here there was a faint blue light afforded by the street outside, as mediated by a blue curtain hanging at the window, which enabled her to see instantly that there was nobody here.

Just the boxes and Charley's trash bags, and a sombre silence, with the muffled hum of traffic and a burst of police sirens on Broadway, a distant backdrop.

It was then she noticed the house-key she had been hunting for earlier, on the window-sill.

The window was ajar.

Lisa looked out and down. There was a vertiginous drop from the window, straight to the sidewalk below.

Surely there was no way Jackson could have left this way?

The street was surprisingly deserted, bar a gusty breeze, scooting a paper bag along the sidewalk, and a damp chill in the air, anticipating a downpour.

Suddenly a hand fell on her shoulder.

Panic quickly faded to annoyance once she realized it was Jackson.

He spun her around to face him.

'What are you trying to do?' she cried. 'Give me a heart attack? I thought you'd gone out the window.'

Jackson sneered in mocking disbelief.

'Unless your friend happens to keep abseiling equipment in here, that would be mighty difficult,' he said derisively. 'I'm a _manager_, not James fucking Bond.'

Lisa could see his eyes glinting in the shadowy blue light, and hear his breathing, deep and regular.

Jackson smiled. He advanced closer to her, suddenly encircling her waist with his arms, with such speed and alacrity, she didn't have time to wriggle away.

'I hadn't given you the all-clear,' he said. 'I had to assume you were an intruder.'

'I don't have to wait for your command Jackson,' Lisa said in biting tones. 'I can do what I like, when I like.'

Jackson gently pushed her hair away from her forehead.

'Sure you can Lise,' he whispered softly. Then, in stark contrast. 'Right. We've got to get you out of here _pronto_.'

Suddenly, he was all business.

'Don't do that!' he barked, just as Lisa was about to switch on the light.

Lisa gasped in shock.

'Someone could be watching,' Jackson warned.

'If that's the case Jackson, then they've already seen us enter the building,' Lisa protested.

'Which is why I was looking out of this window to see if there's an alternative exit route,' Jackson stated, pushing aside boxes and bags to dig out Lisa's suitcase, which he then threw onto the bed.

'And is there one?' Lisa asked querulously. 'Jackson?'

Jackson didn't reply.

'For god's sake Lisa, stop blabbing and give me a hand will you?'

'What are you doing?'

'Checking to see if you've left anything amidst this … mess,' Jackson muttered as he groped under the bed in the dark.

'All I have is my bag, and what I've got on,' Lisa said.

Jackson lugged her case off the bed and headed for the door. 'Great. Let's get going then.'

Lisa was furious.

'You're forgetting Charley!' she declared.

Jackson threw her a churlish look. 'Far from it. I've already tried to wake her up but she won't budge … I still think it's better we leave her. For now.'

Lisa flung herself onto the bed and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

'Well I'm not coming then,' she said, a sullen, determined look on her face. 'If it's so darned dangerous for _me_ to stay here, then it's equally dangerous for _her_.'

Jackson regarded her suspiciously.

'Hold on Lise,' he said finally. 'Is there something you're not telling me about your little friend? Just how much does she actually know about us … about me?'

It was better to come clean, Lisa thought. 'Everything,' she breathed.

Jackson glared angrily. 'You stupid girl,' he said contemptuously.

'How was I to know that you would be at the art show?' Lisa cried.

Jackson didn't wait to listen. He instantly headed for the living room.

'Wakey, wakey Charley!' he shouted, clapping his hands.

Lisa followed Jackson into the living room where she could just about make out, despite the rattan blinds hanging at the windows, that he was pulling Charley into a sitting position.

Charley lolled against him, seemingly unable to awaken.

'Come on Charley! Time to wake up,' Jackson urged. But there was no response from Charley, beyond a loud snore. He let her fall back onto her sofa bed.

'She's out of it,' he said, peevishly. 'And what is it with you _girls_ anyway, that you have to tell each other fucking _everything_? Are you really so pathetic?'

Lisa chose to ignore him, noticing instead that Charley had fallen into bed fully dressed, and her make-up was smeared darkly, all over her pillow.

'Does she always take sleeping pills?' Jackson asked, looking at a small brown bottle with the assistance of a small torchlight attached to his keyring.

'I don't know,' Lisa said, unable to suppress the anxious tone creeping into her voice.

Jackson tipped the bottle upside down, demonstrating to Lisa that it was empty.

'Now don't get your panties in a twist,' he said soothingly, 'I'm not suggesting anything fishy. But I think it's a good idea Charley loses the contents of her stomach. And fast.'

Jackson hurled Charley over his shoulder and sped towards the bathroom.

'Make some very strong coffee,' he demanded. He paused, looking back at her. 'And remember. Don't put the light on.'

Lisa stumbled in the darkness into the kitchen and using her sense of touch alone, she tracked down the kettle, a jar of instant coffee and a mug. She was struggling to stay calm, but somehow by concentrating on the task in hand, she was managing.

She hoped Jackson was being as gentle as possible with Charley. She could hear Charley vomiting, interspersed with loud sobs. The mere sound made her retch.

Lisa plugged in the kettle, hoping the chugging roar as the water came to the boil, would drown out the sound of Charley's sickly eruptions.

She closed her eyes, feeling, momentarily, like she could be lost forever in this darkness. She didn't notice Jackson enter the kitchen until he was standing directly in front of her, and even then, she _felt_ his presence, more than saw him.

'The coffee. We need the coffee,' he grunted.

'How's Charley?'

'She'll live,' he said with a grimace. 'But she'll have a mighty hangover tomorrow morning.'

'So will I,' Lisa grumbled, as she made a mug of coffee. Already there was an unpleasant pulsing at her temples which augured ill.

Jackson grabbed the mug and was about to head out of the kitchen, when Lisa waylaid him.

'Where are we going to go?' Lisa asked plaintively. 'Can we go to your place?'

'No you can't,' Jackson said tersely. 'Alex has a key.'

'Alex is at her beach house,' Lisa recalled.

'Not yet,' Jackson said. 'She goes in the morning.'

'So she's at your place now?'

Jackson shrugged. 'I said I had business, so who knows?'

'And she believed you! At this time of night?' Lisa exclaimed in disbelief.

She couldn't quite make out Jackson's facial expressions in the thick darkness, but she could somehow tell he was smiling. 'Your friend needs her coffee,' he said, ducking out of sight.

Lisa followed him into the bathroom. Charley was sat on the floor, slumped against the bath, holding her head and groaning. There was a small candle alight on the floor, next to the lavatory.

The room reeked of vomit. The smell was so overpowering, Lisa had to step back into the hallway.

Jackson was kneeling beside Charley. He gently pushed her face back, and offered her the coffee.

Lisa felt an unexpected surge of jealousy, even though she knew it was wholly undeserved. Jackson was doing something kind, for once. Helping out her friend.

'She won't remember a thing about tonight,' Jackson said. 'From what I can tell she _had_ taken pills but I'm not sure how many.'

'How do you know? … No. Scrub that Jackson. Don't say,' Lisa said, clutching her head. Her headache was really beginning to kick in. 'So, does that mean _she_ took them, or ... ?'

'We won't know till we can ask her,' Jackson said hastily. 'Look, you'd better get your case. We're leaving as soon as Charley's drunk this … aren't we Charley?' Jackson added, stroking Charley's hair, coaxing her to stay awake.

'But we still don't know where we're going,' Lisa griped. 'I'd feel safer if we were with you.'

She couldn't believe she was thinking this, let alone admitting it.

Jackson stood up abruptly.

'Well, you shouldn't,' he said in brittle tones. 'You're better off in a hotel.'

'So you'd rather package us off, out of sight, out of mind, while you run off home to your biddable little girlfriend,' Lisa said sulkily. She was desperately reining in an unaccountable urge to slap him, which on reflection seemed peculiarly mean, seeing as he had made an effort to help her for most of this evening.

Well … when he wasn't bawling her out for being a spoilt, little Daddy's girl, she thought bitterly.

Jackson smiled. 'Look Lise, I'd rather check out my place _alone_.'

'There's probably nothing to worry about,' he added in brighter tones. 'But it's better to take precautions. I work for these people. I know how they operate … You do see that, don't you?'

Yet Lisa couldn't quite dismiss the feeling that Jackson was somehow abandoning her and Charley. After all. It was _his_ fault they were in this mess to start with.

But instead of further voicing her opinion, she nodded dumbly in consent.

'It's probably just for tonight,' Jackson said, in increasingly placatory tones. 'I'll touch base with Alex tomorrow, see how the land lies. I'll know straight away if she or her father knows anything about you … about us … that they shouldn't.'

He was now standing beside her. Lisa wished he would embrace her, reassure her. Anything.

'So …why do you really think that guy Brody was in this apartment for so long?' Lisa asked, shivering a little with sudden cold. She rubbed her arms to keep warm.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

'Let's hope it was a routine check,' he said eventually.

'What's that mean?' Lisa asked.

There was a sudden explosion of noise from Charley, who was lying, face down, on the bathroom floor. She was seemingly trying to speak, but seemed to be in some difficulty too, as she tried to scrabble to her feet with the inelegance of a newborn foal.

Jackson instantly sprang into action, hauling Charley into a standing position.

'Good girl, Charley,' Jackson said encouragingly. 'It's time to wake up.'

'I feel like a bag of shit,' Charley groaned, collapsing against Jackson.

'I'll get my case,' Lisa whispered, leaving Jackson to steer Charley to the door.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson ventured downstairs first, to check the coast was clear.

He quickly returned, grabbing hold of Charley, and hooking her arm tightly around his shoulder and neck, so she could stagger along beside him.

'I've had an idea,' Lisa said, as they took the elevator.

In the harsh bright light, Jackson's eyes seemed remarkably still and blue. She marvelled how he thrived on crisis.

'Go on,' he said.

'Maybe I could book back into The Sheraton? The Keefe campaign officially rolls into town tomorrow, and I was told I could stay as long as I wanted,' she said.

Jackson eyed her strangely. 'You do realise how odd this is, don't you?'

Lisa smirked. 'It's a good idea. Think about it.'

'Are you seeing Keefe tomorrow?'

'What's it to you?' Lisa asked coolly.

Something told her it would not be the wisest choice in the world to tell the man who had tried and failed to kill Keefe too much about his movements.

Jackson smiled. 'Lisa. When a job's finished, we all move on.'

'Except it's not finished, is it?' she said pointedly.

'It is for me,' he muttered in return, as he stepped out of the elevator, supporting Charley.

XXXXXXXXXX

They caught a cab on Broadway and headed towards Midtown.

Lisa dialled Talbot Haynes's number, hoping it was not too late.

'Hey, Lisa,' he exclaimed, clearly surprised and very sleepy.

Lisa instantly regretted her decision.

'I'm so sorry to call you Talbot,' she said in her most people pleasing manner. 'But I've … _we_, my friend and I, have had a little disaster.'

She glanced at Jackson who was staring at her, a perplexed scowl on his face.

'Nothing too serious I hope,' Talbot said.

Lisa giggled. 'No … just a gas leak, at my friend's apartment.'

She noticed Jackson shaking his head, but pushed on regardless.

'We're kind of marooned.'

'Lisa, I'd invite you out to my place, but I'm stuck out on Long Island, and I've a house full of in-laws,' Talbot said apologetically.

'Oh … I'm sorry to bother you Talbot, I truly am. But I didn't know who else to turn to,' Lisa said.

_Come on_, she was silently urging. Tell me to go to The Sheraton.

'But, hey, here's an idea!' Talbot said chirpily. 'Why don't you fix yourself up with a room at The Sheraton? Charles would be only too happy to help you out Lisa, I'm sure.'

'That's a great idea,' Lisa said excitedly.

Talbot gave her the relevant registration details, emphasizing that she booked into one of the suites the Keefe campaign had pre-booked in advance.

The last he'd heard, Keefe was now stuck in Washington until Monday, but then he'd meet her at the hotel. Talbot promised he would call her tomorrow. See how she was doing.

As soon as the call was over, Lisa grinned triumphantly at Jackson, who looked less than happy.

'I'm now under the protection of the Department of Homeland Security,' she said smugly.

'Like hell you are,' Jackson said scornfully. 'You've bummed a free bed, that's all.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The moment Lisa entered the suite at The Sheraton, she was immediately irritated by an all too familiar, dreaded noise: the aircon unit, which was rattling away at full pelt.

Jackson levered Charley onto a sofa, plumping up cushions for her head, offering her a glass of water.

'Where the fuck are we guys?' Charley moaned. She was only just half-awake and still pretty dazed, but at least she wasn't clinically comatose as they had feared earlier.

Lisa sat beside her, squeezing her hand affectionately.

'We're at a hotel,' she said. 'There was a gas leak in your building.'

'What gas? Don't have gas,' Charley mumbled, genuinely bewildered. She grabbed the glass of water Jackson was offering and with his assistance, drained the lot.

'Never tell lies, unless absolutely necessary,' Jackson murmured, under his breath, although he was smiling with what Lisa decided was a little too much self-righteous glee at her expense.

'Well it's no good telling me that now, Jackson,' Lisa remarked spitefully.

OK, so it was a little embarrassing, but Talbot was hardly likely to check up on her. He didn't even know where Charley lived.

'Oh man. I'm bushed,' Charley said, pushing the glass away. 'Must have been a good night, huh?'

Lisa smiled. 'A really good night,' she said warmly. 'Your show went brilliantly.'

Charley cocked her head to one side, as if unsure what the hell Lisa was talking about.

'I'll tell you all about it in the morning,' Lisa said.

But Charley was already asleep.

Jackson grabbed a spare comforter from the wardrobe.

'What are you doing?' Lisa asked. 'Help me move her to the bed.'

'She's happy where she is,' Jackson said, covering her.

'Well don't think _you_'re sleeping on the bed with _me_,' Lisa said.

Jackson laughed. 'Don't you trust me?'

'Not in the slightest.'

Jackson nodded to Charley who was snoring loudly.

'Believe me Lisa. Nothing would happen. You can thank your mood-killing chaperone for that one.' Jackson sat on the bed and began removing his shoes.

'You can't just get into bed with me,' Lisa reiterated, a little desperately.

'I'm doing nothing of the sort,' Jackson mused. '_I'm_ on the bed. You're nowhere near it.'

'This is booked in my name. And you've got a home to go to,' she countered, hands on hip.

Jackson lay on the bed, stretching himself out, arms behind his head.

'Not bad,' he muttered.

He closed his eyes and smiled.

'Just let me rest a minute,' he said. 'I'll leave shortly. I promise.'

'You'd better,' Lisa grumbled.

She headed into the bathroom, where she freshened up, wondering how she could get Jackson out of the room without offending him.

It was tricky. On the one hand she definitely felt a lot safer knowing he was around. But on the other, she didn't fancy explaining who he was to Charley in the morning, when she would have to reveal that this was her rich little friend Alex De Bowen's fiancée - also known as the infamous Jackson Rippner.

She's have to ask Charley some pretty searching questions tomorrow about what she did, who she spoke to at the art show. She fervently hoped Charley hadn't decided to tell Alex all about her weirdo friend Lisa, who had come all the way to New York from Miami, searching for the man who once tried to kill her, her father and the Deputy Head of Homeland Security. Because if she had ... well, it didn't bear thinking about.

But surely Charley had said nothing in-depth? She'd been too busy. Too giddy.

After all, she had _tried_ to introduce Lisa to Alex De Bowen, more or less as a fresh acquaintance it seemed.

Lisa strained to recall the exact words Charley had used – but it all seemed such a long time ago.

One thing was certain. There hadn't been any sense, Lisa felt, that Alex already knew much about who she was, beyond recognising her from the Hanover Street cafe. And even then, she clearly hadn't been certain. Jackson had made sure of that.

Still. Jackson was probably right. It was better to be safe than sorry.

And hopefully everything would get back to normal tomorrow. And she would never have to meet the De Bowens again …or even think about them.

As for Jackson.

Lisa was uncomfortably aware of a strange gnawing ache when she thought about not seeing _him_ again.

But it was the best way forward. Her life _had_ to get back to normal.

She would see Keefe, as promised. Talk with him. Listen to him. And then offer her sincere best wishes for the success of his campaign before heading home to Miami.

She headed back to the bedroom and the raucous cacophony of snores emanating from the sofa, which was in close competition with the loud thrumming of the aircon unit.

Jackson, however, was oblivious to the ruckus surrounding him.

He was fast asleep.

Lisa felt an unexpected pang of protectiveness, sparked by the lost, vulnerable look on his face as he slept.

She edged onto the bed and slowly, carefully, removed his jacket, relishing the feel of his shirt over warm skin as she eased the jacket off.

Jackson stirred, but didn't wake.

She wondered if he might be cold, so she slipped the bed sheets over him.

The problem of course was where _she_ should sleep.

Jackson was now in full occupation of the bed and her only real option was to get into the bed beside him.

It seemed so intimate.

But she really had no choice.

She snuggled into the bed, peeling off her little black dress so that she was wearing just her underwear, and automatically, unthinkingly, pressed herself close to him, savouring the heat which radiated from him.

She slid her arms around him, while she nestled contentedly into the crook of his arm. She could feel his soft, sighing breathes, like a zephyr, curling on her cheek, as she basked in the comforting glow she couldn't help feeling lying next to him.

It was a long time since she had slept with a man.

She smiled, gently gliding her hand down his back, then smoothly drawing it across his chest, to where she had furiously ripped off his shirt button. She allowed her hand to momentarily rest where she could feel his heart pulsing strongly beneath his warm, firm skin.

Her mind drifted back to their argument earlier that evening.

'See Jackson. … It's still here,' she whispered. However much he wanted to deny it.


	10. The Axeman Cometh

**Author's Note:**  
Again, thanks for the brilliant reviews – they really make this worthwhile! Please keep them coming.

Some of you seem to wish the chapters were updated a little quicker. I'm trying my best, honest I am! These are big, chunky chapters and take some writing. I'd rather offer a properly thought-out slice of story, which 'fits' together as a seamless whole, rather than little snippets here and there ... but I'm afraid that means I can only really pull together a chapter a week at the moment.

Anyway, here's Chapter Ten ... another biggie ... hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**CHAPTER TEN - The Axeman Cometh  
**

Judging by the cold, rumpled sheets and empty space beside her, it was clear that Jackson had got up and left some time ago.

Lisa couldn't help but feel a pang of dismay, even though it was probably better that he had gone before she awoke, undoubtedly saving them some mutual embarrassment. She cringed as she recalled how she had fallen asleep, holding him close, dressed only in her underwear.

She must have been drunker than she thought.

And certainly, as the whinnying snores of Charley sleeping on the couch, echoed around her head, she was now feeling the after-effects.

Parched, Lisa dragged herself out of bed and made for the bathroom, where she poured herself a glass of tepid water which reeked of chlorine. She gawked unhappily at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was sticking up in knotted tufts and her eyes were puffy and dulled.

She took a shower, relishing the warm, refreshing water as it bounced off her skin, and thought through what she hoped to do that day. First, she reckoned she should make a call to the Lux Atlantic – make sure everything was running smoothly in her absence.

She should then call her Dad ... or maybe she should call him first, although she wasn't keen on having to blatantly lie to him when he asked her how things were going.

At some point she expected to hear from Talbot Haynes. And she needed to explain herself to Charley too. Charley would be mighty confused when she finally awoke – which might be some time, Lisa reminded herself, considering the alcohol and clearly the drugs that Charley had consumed last night.

And then there was Jackson.

Was he going to call her? Surely he had to. He had assured her that he would be checking in with the De Bowens this morning, to see if they seemed in any way suspicious about the _Lisa _they had met at Charley's art show.

She wondered how Jackson planned to do this. Was he heading off to the beach house too? Or would a quick call do the job?

More importantly. Would she ever see him again? Would he even want to see her? After all, he might now see her as a liability.

Lisa dried herself and pulled out some fresh clothes from her suitcase. Nothing special. Jeans and a white cotton shirt.

The shower had done her the world of good. She was fresh-faced and shiny clean. Even her eyes had regained a bit of sparkle, despite the fact she could still feel a drumming at her temples, and her throat felt dry and gravelly.

She downed another glass of tepid tap water.

In the bedroom, Charley was already stirring from her sleep of the dead. Certainly the snores had piped down, which was a considerable relief, seeing as Lisa was about to call Cynthia.

Cynthia was bright and chirpy as always.

'I'm so glad you're having a good time – now do remember to relax, take it easy Lisa,' she trilled.

'I will do.'

'Everything's under control. We ... we've had a minor glitch. Nothing to worry about. With the computer software,' Cynthia said.

'What kind of glitch?' Lisa asked, regretting the question the moment it was uttered. As if she didn't have enough to worry about?

'Some type of virus. It's gotten into the main computer system this morning. It's kind of strange.'

'How?'

Cynthia seemed to suppress a nervous giggle. 'It's kind of like ... there was this funny little image of a little pixelated man with an axe, chopping through these lines of computer code, you know, all those zeros and squiggles. And this wacko message. _The Axeman Cometh_. Well, that had us in stitches – probably some kid or other. Except ever since then, the IT guys say they're losing loads of data ... and they can't stop it.'

'Heck Cynthia! You serious? That sounds creepy.'

And only since this morning? Lisa's thoughts instantly sprang to Jackson. He knew how to access the computer systems at the Lux Atlantic hotel. Had he done it again? Was this his idea of a bad joke?

But to actually create a computer-generated avatar which then infiltrated the data systems with a virus – that was hardcore hacking. Surely beyond Jackson's capabilities?

Cynthia was right. It was likely to be some geeky high school kid.

Lisa sighed. 'There'll be a backup on the secondary servers of any data you might have lost Cynthia. The IT boys can sort it out.'

'They're on to it already,' Cynthia said. 'We've lost some guest registration details and some of the booking software has been corrupted – but we're on top of things Lisa.'

Lisa smiled. 'I'm sure you are.'

'Don't let this ruin your vacation,' Cynthia warned.

'I won't. Promise.'

Lisa's next call was set to be her Dad, but she was distracted by Charley, groaning pitiably, as she launched herself from the couch.

'Fuck!' Charley cursed, holding her head in her hands.

'And good morning to you too,' Lisa said, trying to remain as bright as possible.

'Where the fucking hell are we?' Charley moaned. 'Why am I still wearing my Oscar de la Renta and why is it in such a fucking state?'

'_That_'s an Oscar de la Renta?' Lisa asked, aghast at the crumpled creamy chiffon number which was streaked with dark coffee stains, hanging loosely from Charley's angular frame. She guessed giving an extremely drunk person a cup of coffee without the lights on, had not been such a good idea.

Charley tried to manoeuvre her way to the bathroom, collapsing against the bed, before tottering in an ungainly fashion onto it. Her eyes were virtually sealed shut by thickly congealed black kohl and clogged lumps of mascara. Lisa hazarded a guess that the spangly purple semi-circles encrusted onto her eyelids were in fact the remnants of last night's eye-shadow rather than severe bruising, as they first appeared to be.

'You could do with a shower,' she suggested.

'I could do with a brand new fucking head,' Charley gasped, clutching her head in pain.

The room telephone suddenly sprang into action with a shrill peal. Lisa hastily grabbed it, mindful of the agonized expression which flashed across Charley's face.

Lisa's first thought was Jackson, but instead it was Talbot Haynes's unctuous tones, which greeted her with what she felt to be unwarranted excitement.

'Lisa!' he cried.'How are you?'

'I'm fine thanks,' Lisa replied, desperately trying to dismiss the disappointment from her voice.

'I'm sure glad to get hold of you Lisa. I realize I'm a little late in calling.'

Lisa glanced at her watch. It was already eleven.

'No. Not at all. We're kind of having a lazy morning,' she said.

'Great. You see I'm in the Sheraton New York ... it's a stone's throw from the Manhattan. Why don't you come over for a coffee? I've told Colm you're staying here, and he said it'd be cool to see you.'

'What? Now?' Lisa asked.

'Sure thing. He's already on his way,' Talbot said..

'On his way?'

'Yup. Should be with you any minute now ... .'

Only then did Lisa realize the full ghastly horror of the situation. The amiable, suave Colm Buchanan was set to arrive at her hotel room to whisk her away, and meanwhile, Charley was spread-eagled across the bed, bleating mournfully into a pillow.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Charley,' Lisa said sharply. 'You've got to go and get showered. Come on.'

'Oh man,' Charley moaned. 'You haven't even told me what we're doing here? Did we meet some guys?'

Lisa initially considered this as a plausible explanation, but then dismissed it, recalling Jackson's injunction – 'Never tell lies unless absolutely necessary.'

'No Charley,' she sighed. 'We're here because ... someone tried to break into your apartment last night.'

OK. So it wasn't _quite_ true.

'You're kidding me! Did you call the police?' Charley asked, stupefied, blinking maniacally in the harsh gray daylight which was streaming through the window.

'Well no. They didn't actually break in as such, but we got spooked ... so ...,' Lisa tailed off. 'So we're staying here instead, which is cool, seeing as it's that bit more central.'

'Hardly,' Charley spluttered. 'And I don't believe a fucking word Lisa Reisert, but I'll let it go. For now. Did you bring me any clothes?'

'We were in a hurry,' Lisa said apologetically. 'But look the room's all paid for. Treat it as a free vacation ... and you can wear whatever you like of mine,' she offered.

'Hey short-ass ... I'm a good few inches taller than you,' Charley said, dragging open Lisa's suitcase which was perched on a low table, and pulling out various garments. She finally alighted on a long, snugly fitting jade green summer dress – not entirely appropriate for New York in Fall. Included when packing, more to sound a note of optimism than reality.

Charley grabbed the dress and hauled herself off to the bathroom.

'You got Advil?' she shouted, just as someone – presumably Colm – pressed the door-buzzer.

'Yeah. In my wash bag,' Lisa replied, as she hurried to the door.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Pardon me for the intrusion Lisa ... I'm hoping you've already spoken to Talbot, so I'm not _too _unexpected?' Colm Buchanan said, beaming.

He was as broad and handsome as she had remembered with his feline green eyes and his even tan.

Lisa guessed that Charley would positively adore him.

'I've just this minute spoken to him,' Lisa said with a smile. What could they be wanting? Lisa thought, irritated at this unexpected turn of events. Her meeting with Keefe had already been postponed until tomorrow.

Colm glanced quickly around the room. He raised his eyebrows quizzically at Charley's comforter sprawled across the couch.

'Oh. My friend Charley. She took the couch last night,' Lisa explained.

Colm nodded. 'I didn't think you girlfriends minded sharing a bed. Most guys would rather cut off their dick than cozy up to a buddy for the night.' He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, that highlighted his guttural Scottish accent.

Lisa was a little taken aback by Colm's sudden descent into crude language. It didn't seem to mesh with his outwardly cool, debonair image, belying someone much earthier than she had first imagined.

She smiled politely and was about to suggest they set off, when Charley came lumbering out of the bathroom, enveloped in a large fluffy white toweling bathrobe, provided courtesy of the hotel.

'These fucking Advils had better work. My head's gonna explode,' she moaned. Then she stopped short, agog at the sight of someone as handsome and polished as Colm Buchanan seeing her in such a state.

Lisa couldn't help but smile fondly at her friend's desperate blushing embarrassment.

Colm, of course, was the perfect gentleman, and straight after brief introductions he invited Charley to join them for coffee too.

XXXXXXXXXX

Coffee, thankfully, was accompanied by cakes and pastries – much to Lisa and Charley's delight, seeing as they were starving - in the Club lounge at the Sheraton New York, situated across Seventh Avenue from its sister hotel the Sheraton Manhattan. The lounge had an intimate setting; plush leather chairs and plump brocade upholstery, yet with panoramic views across Midtown New York.

Talbot was stuffing a _pain au chocolat_ into his mouth, just as they all arrived, and seemed to chew on it endlessly, often open-mouthed, as he extended warm greetings to Lisa and an over-enthusiastic welcome to Charley, who seemed both bemused and repelled in equal measure.

'I'm so glad you called me last night,' Talbot said to Lisa, offering her a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. 'Such bad luck – and such an obvious solution.'

Lisa began to silently panic, keeping a fixed grin on her face. Don't mention the gas leak, she privately begged.

But of course, moments later, he was recalling a particularly vivid story about how an unnoticed gas leak in a friend's apartment had eventually ignited, blowing out an entire half a block. He pursed his lips and nodded with particular meaning to Charley, who seemed more than a little perplexed at this line of conversation – when she wasn't embroiled in her primary activity, which seemed to comprise cramming as many cakes and pastries into her mouth as seemed humanly possible.

Most importantly, Charley did not seem to manifest either the forethought or the desire to contradict Haynes's increasingly obvious assumptions that her apartment was under siege by toxic gases, instead exchanging one single meaningful look with Lisa – one that demanded an explanation later – but she wisely chose not to pursue the subject further, as yet another cream-filled puff pastry demanded her attention.

'You know, I don't know Florida all that well,' Colm said, turning to Lisa, his deep, burnished voice interrupting her train of thought.

'Then you must come and stay at the Lux Atlantic,' Lisa said warmly, instantly realizing that in saying this, it indicated that she would not be likely to join up with the Keefe campaign any time soon.

Colm, however, merely smiled.

Talbot had engaged Charley in an in-depth discussion on American art. It appeared he had a passion for Whistler, and seemed excessively keen to air his long-winded and verbose views on the subject to a real live artist. Charley was wearing her be-nice-to-sponsors-&-potential buyers face, but couldn't help but suppress a yawn.

Hardly surprising in light of her alcohol-induced catatonic state just a few short hours ago. But Lisa had to admire her cast-iron constitution.

This left Colm chatting to Lisa, in what felt increasingly to Lisa like a double-date – one where she wanted to be absent and her friend wanted to be talking to Colm, which was patently obvious, seeing as Charley could barely allow a full thirty seconds to pass before casting a sidelong admiring glance in their direction.

'You'll have to come up and see the _America Forwards_ team while you're staying,' Colm said cheerfully. 'We're based in the Liberty Suite, third floor. Haynes has lined up an interview with CNN for tomorrow afternoon ... come along if you like.'

'Interviewing you or Charles?'

'Oh. Me. On behalf of A_merica Forwards_. Charles has a studio interview at NBC. And it's really not his place to be seen at an _America Forwards_ press call.'

'Because he loses his independence,' Lisa said.

'Pretty much.' Colm nodded, maintaining eye contact with Lisa. Indeed, his stare had become so intense, Lisa could feel a faint blush staining her cheeks.

She poured herself an orange juice, half-wishing she had a couple of Advils to hand too. Her hangover was stealthily creeping back.

'So ... Colm,' Lisa said a little hesitantly, feeling she should at least play a part in this conversation. 'Have you always been a lobbyist?'

'Strictly speaking, I'm _not_ a lobbyist,' Colm said in smooth tones. 'Like I told you before. I'm a fixer. My main role is strategic thinking.' He took a sip of his coffee, and then paused, a pensive look on his face.

'My consultancy – Buchanan, Sheen & Smith Associates - we're pretty much a jack of all trades. Problem-solvers if you will.' Colm grinned, warming to his subject. 'Frankly, running _America Forwards_ is a dream project for me. I always wanted more of the political, engineering true change, rather than the corporate, which is where I've been stuck for too many years.'

'So _America Forwards_ is a real personal mission for you then,' Lisa said, half-wondering then what _America First_ had represented, when he was working for Keefe's rival, Leighton Fitch. Were they one and the same thing, just repackaged, rebranded, regurgitated?

She didn't dare say this though, and smiled, her sweetest, meekest smile, fancying that Colm, for all of his genteel, _new man_ civility, was probably a guy who liked his girls to be polite and good-mannered, holding back on the opinions.

Colm nodded enthusiastically.

'So how come you got involved with American politics, not British?' Lisa asked, hoping this wasn't too contentious for Colm's taste.

Colm smiled broadly. 'Oh, if Scotland was to gain independence, I'd be there in a shot.'

'Don't they have their own parliament?' Lisa asked, vaguely recalling being told this by a friendly Scottish businessman with a gift for the gab - a hardened Scottish revolutionary, by his own account - who'd been staying at the Lux Atlantic for a week last Winter.

'It's a toothless beast,' Colm said, a twinkle in his eye. 'Nah Lisa. If you want to be at the heart of things, you need to be at the heart of the world.'

'Which is why Colm's opening an office in Beijing, isn't it Colm?' Talbot said, succeeded by an obnoxious little snicker.

Colm was not overjoyed at this distraction, and Talbot, instantly chastened by one single withering look, returned to extolling the virtues of Whistler's tonalism and its profound influence on successive generations of American artists to Charley, who looked set to cry with boredom.

Something about this little exchange was worrying Lisa. She sincerely hoped that Colm wasn't taking more than a professional interest in her – although something lingering in his looks at her mouth, her hair, and particularly her figure, alerted her otherwise.

'You see Lisa,' Colm said, as soon as Talbot's attention was engaged elsewhere. 'I've done my dance with the devil. I've worked for the big corporate guns – many now viewed as a transnational axis of evil. I'm talking petro-chemicals, pharmaceuticals ... even arms. But improving the daily lives of each and every American is a much more meaningful existence ... don't you think?'

'Oh. Yes. For sure,' Lisa said. She politely nibbled at her Danish pastry, anything to stave off the hunger pangs gnawing at her insides. But somehow eating in front of Colm felt all wrong. She couldn't imagine a man like him needed normal food and sustenance. There was a robotic, superman quality in Colm's air and appearance that she was finding a little disconcerting. Even though his charm and good looks were undeniable.

'How long have you been in America?' Lisa asked.

Colm shrugged. 'On and off. About ten years.'

'Hey, Colm,' Talbot interrupted, licking his fingers noisily after consuming yet another _pain au chocolat _which had squelched dark molten chocolate onto his hand and down his shirt-front.

'Have you told Lisa about the opera?' Talbot continued excitedly.

'Ah yes. We finally come to the point of this little rendezvous,' Colm said, smiling his broadest, most handsome smile. He addressed both Lisa and Charley, which Lisa swiftly realized was going to be her greatest liability. 'Tomorrow night we're going to the Met ... I have a parterre box ... to see _Rigoletto_. Would you ladies like to come along?'

Charley clapped her hands in joy. 'Oh man! That would be so cool. I love the opera.'

Lisa pulled a face. 'It's not my thing,' she said, which wasn't strictly true. Her Dad had a bunch of old records that he occasionally pulled out for a spin, and she had grown to love a lot of what she heard.

But in the face of Charley's exuberant response, Lisa felt she had no choice but to smile politely and agree to come.

It was therefore decided that Colm would pick them up from their hotel room at around six thirty tomorrow evening.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Oh my god, that man is simply gorgeous,' Charley gabbled, once Lisa and Charley had returned to their hotel room.

'Talbot? Something of an acquired taste, don't you think?' Lisa said with a smirk.

'Shit no! That guy's a creep. The other one,' Charley flung herself on to the king-size bed and groaned. 'He's a dreamboat.' She sat upright. 'I see you hogged him for yourself.'

Lisa grinned. 'Believe me Charley. I have no interest in Colm Buchanan.'

And she couldn't really fathom why. He was an ideal date. Good-looking, sophisticated, clearly extremely rich, the type of man your mother would swoon over.

And she had no doubt he was a cool guy. With the best interests of the Keefe campaign at heart.

But there was something plasticky about him. Unreal. He was too handsome, too cool, too _altogether_. Maybe that was it. He was too much.

Unlike Jackson, she thought. Who, despite his multiple shiny surfaces and seeming super-confidence, was more three-dimensional, uneven, unpredictable. And really pretty messed-up.

Why hadn't he rung? Lisa checked her cell phone. She'd left it on charge before she left for coffee, and had hoped he would have called by her return. But there were no messages. Nothing.

'Well, if you have no interest Lisa. Do you mind if I do?' Charley asked, still banging on about Colm Buchanan. 'Not now of course,' she muttered. 'I feel like crap. But if you're seeing him later ... can I come along?'

'I'm not seeing him later,' Lisa said. 'But you'll see him at the opera tomorrow anyway.'

'Shit. I've nothing nice to wear, now my Oscar de la Renta's been ruined. I'll have a snooze and then go shopping.'

'Good.'

'So come one Lisa, why are we really here? Because my apartment doesn't have gas, and your little break-in story's looking kind of thin,' Charley asked, surprising Lisa, who had thought, had hoped, that Charley had been sufficiently diverted by the handsome Colm Buchanan away from this line of awkward questioning.

Lisa wondered if she should be honest. But realized that this would terrify Charley, who had many dealings through the art world with the De Bowens.

Instead, she had to blame Jackson.

'I saw Jackson Rippner. Last night. He was watching the apartment,' she said haltingly.

Charley's eyes were round with fear. 'Shit man. The evil guy from the plane you got off with? That's really creepy. Was he stalking you? ... Did, did you call the police?'

'No Charley. I couldn't be one hundred percent certain ... and you know my record in that department, so I thought the best bet was just to get out of there ... seeing as we had an alternative.'

Charley nodded dumbly.

'So a couple of days here, and I'll soon be out of your hair ... no need to worry then,' Lisa said.

'Maybe ... maybe we should tell Colm and, and ... what's-his-face?'

'Why?'

'Well. Maybe they could offer us a little manly protection,' Charley said, with a twinkle in her eye.

Lisa grimaced. 'I don't think so Charley. Best not to get anyone else involved.'

Lisa was relieved when her cell phone rang.

She dashed to pick it up, her heart beating a little faster, realizing it might be Jackson.

Lisa felt a little self-conscious in front of Charley, so she headed into the bathroom.

'It's me,' Jackson said.

A wave of relief that swept over her. _Thank god he'd called._

'Have you any news?' she asked tentatively.

'I think we're in the clear,' Jackson said, although Lisa felt sure there was a momentary hesitation in his voice. A slight quaver. 'But ... I'll know more tonight. I have to be in East Hampton. Work stuff.'

There was an awkward silence.

'At the beach house?'

Jackson laughed awkwardly. 'Yes ... it's an extended charm offensive. Potential clients.'

'And you, of course, are a key charmer,' Lisa said drolly.

Jackson laughed, a little embarrassed Lisa thought.

'Look Lisa, I understand if you don't want to, but do you want to meet up? Talk stuff over.'

There was another heavy silence as Lisa weighed his words. What did _that_ mean? Talk stuff over.

'Where?' she asked.

'Do you know the Met? The art museum.'

'I've never been, but yes.'

'How soon can you get there?'

Lisa glanced at herself in the mirror. She was flushed red and her eyes were shining.

Oh god, she thought. Is this a good idea?

'I'm on my way,' she said.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson had said to meet him in the Modern Art section, rather than get lost in the front entrance scrummage, so Lisa checked a floor plan in the lobby and headed for a far-flung corner of the gallery. 

There was no sign of Jackson downstairs, so Lisa headed upstairs, in some trepidation.

She soon spotted him, wandering from picture to picture, a little lonely-looking from this distance, and somehow _different_. Lisa advanced slowly, trying to work out why.

And then she realized.

He was wearing black jeans and a black shirt, not his typical suited attire, and with his hands jammed firmly into his jeans' back pockets, he looked a lot less sinister, even less stand out than normal. He also looked younger, boyish. His hair was a little ruffled at the back, as though he'd recently been asleep, and had hurried out of the house.

He was standing before a painting which seemed to be split into three parts as a triptych. The figures depicted seemed to be scowling, angry, twisted. Vividly colored and misshapen. It was a picture of furious folly, and seemed to be centered around a boy dressed in a military costume, seated on a white horse.

Lisa advanced closer and read the accompanying sign, which said that this was _Beginning_ by Max Beckmann,1949. She'd never heard of Beckmann, but from the looks of things, he was not a happy bunny.

Jackson was still looking straight ahead, but a small smile snuck across his face as she approached and stood next to him.

'Hello Lise,' he said.

'Hello Jackson,' Lisa said in return, a little timidly. She stared at the picture, suddenly overcome with shyness, as she instantly flashed back to her holding him close in bed last night.

She dared to look at him.

He was gazing at her intently, his eyes a brilliant blue. For one brief moment, it felt as though the world had slowed down a little.

They both seemed to find it hard to look away.

Say something, she said to herself. Say something. Anything.

She nodded to the picture. 'This, er ... Beckmann guy. Seems a bit mixed up if you ask me.'

Jackson beamed. 'The guy's a fucking genius.'

Lisa looked again at the picture. It was so distorted, disturbing.

'He painted this shortly before he died,' Jackson added. 'He paints ugliness like it's beautiful.'

Lisa raised her eyebrows in confusion. 'Well. I guess he didn't quite crack it with this one. Still looks darned ugly to me.'

Jackson smiled.'Well. This painting's quite tame for Beckmann. A lot of his stuff is genuinely scary. Real horror-show. You'd hate it.'

'Nice guy,' Lisa said softly.

'Yeah, I reckon he was,' Jackson said, seeming to ignore her irony. 'He got badly fucked-up in the first world war. He was a German medic. Couldn't get over how seemingly nice everyday guys could suddenly turn into murderous psychopaths. And when the war was over, and he was back in Germany, he set out to paint how he felt. He'd lost faith in the world around him.' Jackson sneered. 'And then ... along came Hitler.'

'Which probably made him feel a whole lot better,' Lisa said, flippantly.

Jackson laughed bitterly. 'He was described as a degenerate by the Nazi regime because he didn't subscribe to the idea that all art should be fluffy mindless entertainment or some form of fascistic Aryan propaganda ... not too different from today really.'

'That's going a bit far Jackson,' Lisa murmured as they walked on, past the Beckmann, circling slowly, their hands occasionally bouncing against each others, but never together for more than a glancing touch.

'I can't believe you like art,' Lisa said.

'Why's that then?'

'You don't seem the sort.'

Jackson stopped in front of a vast Jackson Pollock canvas.

'I have a very boring life,' he said simply.

'Oh yes, course you do,' Lisa scoffed.

'Well. I have to do a lot of waiting around ... lots of flights, lots of different cities, some very tedious people ... you've really no idea how boring hired killers are Lisa,' Jackson said in low tones.

'So ... when you go to these different cities, you ... go to art galleries,' Lisa suggested, a bright smile on her face.

'That's right. I like how pictures are ... ordered. What's put where. What fills the space,' Jackson said. As he spoke he slowly walked around her, encircling her, watching her. 'And I read a lot. All those long flights.'

He paused, coming to a halt, directly in front of her. 'Believe me Lise. When it comes to art, I could bore the pants off you.'

'You're not boring me,' Lisa said. 'I like art ... I just know nothing about it.' She gestured to the Beckmann. 'Not too sure if _he_ takes my fancy though.'

'Let me guess,' Jackson said, grinning, circling closer. 'You like ... Monet. Renoir. All that girly impressionist nonsense.'

'Maybe I do,' Lisa said, with a coy smile.

'Well. That's very unoriginal of you Miss Reisert.'

'I don't care,' Lisa said archly. 'I don't want to be _scared_ when I look at a picture. And being dark and meaningful is kind of pretentious if you ask me. Better just get on with life, be happy.'

Jackson frowned, a pensive look on his face.

'So the dark side … that's just far too dangerous, isn't it? Too unsettling,' he said.

'There's enough vile crap going on in the world as it is,' Lisa said. 'Why add to it?'

She looked directly into Jackson's eyes, and again, had that odd sensation that the world around them had slowed down, but then a few intrusive voices sharply reminded her that this conversation was still taking place slap bang in front of the Jackson Pollock – and they were beginning to rile a few onlookers.

Jackson had noticed too because he grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

They moved towards the staircase leading to the lower floor.

'You see none of that's a surprise to me Lisa,' Jackson said in slightly more cutting tones. 'I figure there's two types of people when it comes to art. And it all boils down to what they feel about death.'

'You're obsessed with death, you know that?' Lisa said sardonically, as they jogged down the steps to the floor below.

'Well. It's a pretty fucking huge thing about being alive Lisa.'

'But it doesn't need to be dwelt on,' Lisa argued.

'You see. You're making my point for me,' Jackson said triumphantly.

'Which is?'

'That some people, _like you_, get off on art and books and TV because it makes them happy, because it takes their mind off the fact that one day they have to die.'

'Great. Go on,' Lisa said, her mouth twitching with amusement.

'Whereas someone _like me_ – I'm not frightened of the macabre, the fucked-up. I think facing up to fear, to death, makes us value life all the more.'

Jackson pulled her through the room, towards a strange, eery picture, showing a large, misshapen statue of a woman lying on a stone platform in the middle of a deserted square, bordered on one side by multiple shadowy arches.

'For example. This painting. _Ariadne_. This really creeps me out, but instead of wanting to avoid it, I feel drawn to it,' Jackson explained.

Lisa smiled. 'That's because you're naturally miserable. You're an assassin. It's not exactly the most cheerful profession, is it now?'

Jackson leaned closer towards her, so close his lips were touching her ear. 'You don't need to broadcast that to the entire gallery Lisa.'

Lisa smiled. Then in a deliberately quiet voice, so quiet it forced Jackson to stay virtually cheek to cheek with her, she said, 'OK then Mr Sunshine. Who's the artist? Educate me.'

'Giorgio De Chirico. Look, his name's right there,' Jackson said, pointing to the accompanying placard.

'Well, I don't like this painting too much,' Lisa said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. 'Although ... it is kind of atmospheric I guess. In a spooky sort of way.'

Jackson stood beside her to look at the picture, and then stepped back so he was virtually behind her instead.

'I think it's meant to be,' he murmured. 'This guy loves to paint this same creepy scene over and over. Like some never-ending paranoid nightmare. And ... you just can't help wondering who's watching from the shadows.'

'Probably people like you,'Lisa said dryly.

'What's that supposed to mean?' Jackson asked.

Lisa reached round, placing her hand on his waist and whispered in Jackson's ear. 'Men who like to kill people.'

A shadow scurried across Jackson's face.

'Oh. I see. You mean I'm scared of myself. Very insightful that one Lisa. That must be Freudian or something,' Jackson said in sarcastic tones.

'No,' Lisa said with exaggerated patience.' People _like_ you.'

Jackson pondered this for a moment. 'Maybe you're right.'

Lisa couldn't help gazing at his mouth which was so close to her own, now that she was effectively leaning backwards into him. For one brief, crazy moment she wished he would fold his arms around her and kiss her.

She quickly moved away, spinning round to face him.

'Talking of which,' she said in a whisper. 'On the phone you said you think we're in the clear ... .'

Jackson nodded, although he didn't meet her eye when he spoke, which was a little disconcerting. 'I hope so. But ... let's go some place else.'

'Well. I'm hungry,'she said.

'We'll go eat then,' he said breezily, although Lisa sensed a note of tension in his voice.'I'm sure there's a cafe somewhere round here.'

XXXXXXXXXX

They found a table positioned next to vast ceiling-to-floor windows, looking out on to Central Park. The scenery was marred somewhat by a heavy downpour of rain and clotted gray skies.

There was a slight chill in the air. Lisa shivered, sensing an outbreak of goosebumps on her arms and her legs. She delighted in the sensation.

'Are you cold?' Jackson asked.

'A little,' Lisa said. 'I quite like watching rain actually.' She grinned. 'Sounds a bit odd that coming from a Floridian, doesn't it?'

'I had to drive through a hurricane in your state once,' Jackson said grimly. 'The rain was falling so hard I thought it might break my windshield.'

'Well that was plain silly,' Lisa said, smiling.

Her smile quickly faltered. Jackson was staring at her again, with an intensity that rendered her momentarily breathless, as though the cafe was fading into gray around them. Lisa desperately tried to dampen down the fluttering excitement inside her, to overcome her sudden acute self-consciousness.

She was glad that a waiter intervened, passing them a menu.

'Oh, I just want a salad,' she said, flicking through the menu half-heartedly. She indicated her choice to the waiter, and also ordered a glass of dry white wine. Jackson did the same but waived the food.

'I ate before I came out,' he said.

'I've never seen you eat,' Lisa remarked.

'Yes you have.'

'No ... I haven't.'

Jackson thought a moment. 'Probably not. Well ... I _do_ eat Lisa. Often.' He leaned across the table, then whispered, 'even _men who like to kill people _have to eat you know. We're not just automatons.'

'So you admit you _like_ to kill people,' she said, in similarly hushed tones.

Jackson frowned deeply. 'No. Those were _your_ words, remember? But ... we do live in very different moral spheres Lisa ... my entire life I am surrounded by psychopaths, and believe me, I meet most of them through my work at De Bowens, not when I'm on a job.'

'What do you mean?' Lisa asked, curiously.

'I mean there are many more psychopaths stalking the corridors of power and money, than there are hired killers.'

The drinks and salad arrived.

Lisa supped her chilled wine mournfully.

Jackson grabbed her fork and spooled a piece of pasta and rocket onto it before cramming it into his mouth.

'See Lise,' he smiled. 'I can eat. I'm all real.'

Lisa smiled weakly in return. 'I know.'

And she did know, she thought with an inward sigh. Almost too real.

She nibbled diffidently at her salad and stared out of the window, recalling the feel of his warm skin as she lay close against him last night.

It was best she just finished this and left.

She had to move on, get home. Forget this beautiful man with the chilling blue eyes sat in front of her, before it was too late.

'So ... you're absolutely sure everything's OK then?' she asked, yet again, still a little fearful of his response. So far she hadn't felt entirely convinced by him in this regard.

Jackson grimaced. 'I went back to Charley's this morning. I swept the place for bugs. Everything seemed fine. I spoke with both Alex and her father, before they set off for East Hampton ... and there was nothing_ unusual_ in what they said, or how they said it. So, I can only surmise ... .'

'I guess there's nothing else you can do.'

'Not really. Did you get to speak to Charley?'

Lisa cackled softly. 'She wasn't in the best shape this morning.'

Jackson laughed. 'That's not a surprise.'

Lisa hesitated, a little uncomfortable at what she had to say next. 'One small thing Jackson,' she said. 'You didn't decide to play a prank on my hotel's computers this morning, did you?'

Jackson narrowed his eyes in suspicion.'What kind of _prank_?'

'Well. It looks like someone has hacked into the server and sent us a malicious virus.'

Jackson drank some of his wine, but Lisa could see he was thinking, and not too happy with his thoughts.

'I told you Lise,' he said. 'I told you that system was vulnerable. And it _wasn't_ me ... but then you know that already, don't you?'

Lisa smiled weakly. 'I had to ask,' she said softly.

But if it wasn't Jackson, then who was it?

Jackson cleared his throat. 'The important thing, Lisa, is that you're going to be home soon to handle it. Get this little business you have with this Keefe guy out of the way, and get back to Miami.'

'I see you can't wait to get rid of me,' Lisa said crankily. But she instantly regretted her tone when she saw that Jackson was deadly serious – even though he was trying hard to be as light-hearted as possible.

'All I'm saying is you're best off in Miami. And while you're here, stick with the Keefe campaign. Don't go back to Charley's,' he said doggedly, almost imploring.

'I thought you said Charley's place was cool,' Lisa hissed.

'It _is_ cool ... as far as I can tell, but I'd rather you stayed at the hotel, stayed close to Keefe and his guys,' Jackson said earnestly. 'It's just a precaution ... and I'm going out of town.'

'For a long time?'

'I don't know yet,' he said sullenly.

So she wouldn't be seeing him again. This was what he was telling her, Lisa realized.

Try as she might, she couldn't help the sudden sinking feeling which swamped her, unsure if it was motivated by fear or disappointment. She gulped back some wine and stared disconsolately out of the window, which was gradually misting over and streaked with rain.

'What's up?' Jackson asked.

'Nothing,' she said.

Jackson didn't look convinced. 'You should be overjoyed Lise,' he said. 'Considering this is the last time we'll ever meet.'

Lisa continued to look out at the rain.

'Not that there's any real point to our meeting of course ... we could have talked this over on the phone. But ... I really wanted to see you,' Jackson said. He swallowed, as if something was caught in his throat. 'Because ... getting out of your bed this morning was the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.'

Lisa could feel her heart beat a little faster. _Don't say that Jackson_, she thought angrily.

She sighed, and put her fork down.

'You know I'm not that hungry any more.' She roughly pushed her plate aside and took another long cool sip of her wine instead. 'I should really get going.'

'Sure,' Jackson said, business-like. 'I've got to get to East Hampton anyway.'

Jackson drank back half his wine. He checked his watch. He placed his hand flat on the table, inches from her own. Lisa noted he had round, smooth, unbitten nails. Strong, shapely hands. No jewelry.

'When ... when do you get married?' Lisa asked, instantly regretting the question.

She dared to look Jackson in the face. There was a faint pink flush streaking across his cheeks.

Jackson shrugged. 'Whenever. It's not decided.' He sighed. 'You know Lisa. I really don't care about Alex, you know that, don't you.'

'No Jackson. I have absolutely no idea what you think and feel about anything,' Lisa said sharply. 'And ... and frankly it's got nothing to do with me.'

Her words were met with a cold silence.

'All I _can _say,' she said slowly, deliberately, 'is if you're engaged to be married, then that's a pretty big deal. And if you don't care about her Jackson, why the hell are you marrying her?'

'It's complicated,' Jackson said.

'How is it complicated? People fall in love, they get married.'

'I'm not like _people_,' Jackson said peevishly.

He stood up abruptly to go, pulling his wallet out of his jeans pocket and slapping a bill onto the table.

'Come on,' he said, seized with sudden petulant anger.' Let's go.'

He snatched Lisa's hand and hauled her up and away from the table, dragging her through the cafe towards the exit.

XXXXXXXXXX

They walked briskly through a statue gallery, down one staircase leading to the first floor, and then down another leading ultimately to the crowded lobby and the main doorway leading outside onto Fifth Avenue, where the rain was falling thick and fast. Here they were jostled onto the steps, and forced against a tall, Corinthian pillar, by a pack of large-boned tourists wielding umbrellas with seemingly dangerous intent, who were determined to push inside at any cost.

Lisa was slightly sheltered by an overhang far above her, but Jackson had been jettisoned into the rain which was tumbling in heavy torrents from the clouded skies overhead.

'You wanting a cab?' he asked brusquely.

'Well, I'm hardly going to walk, am I?' Lisa said irritably. She shuddered involuntarily, as a roll of thunder echoed across the sky. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. 'It's gotten cold,' she said.

Jackson's hair was gradually getting wetter and wetter. Thick globs of rainwater were trickling down his face, soaking his shirt.

Jackson wiped the rain from his face, and ran his hands through his hair, scooping his damp fringe out of his eyes. Lisa couldn't ignore the lurch of undeniable attraction she suddenly felt for him, unable to take her eyes away from the sculpted line of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his mouth, the fierce, blazing blue of his eyes.

Instinctively, she pulled him close, out of the rain, wrapping her arms around his waist.

'You're getting soaked,' she said affectionately.

'I know,' he said, with a grim smile. He paused, watching her carefully, desperately trying to read her tone, her face.

Then, tentatively, cautiously, he touched her cheek.

'You still cold?' he asked.

'Freezing.'

Jackson rubbed her back, hoping to warm her. Then he encircled her tightly in his arms, even though this meant his wet shirt was pressed against her.

'Lisa ... I'm not very good at saying goodbyes,' he said awkwardly. 'In fact ... I'd probably find it easier just to shoot you.'

Lisa laughed nervously. 'Well. A quick peck on the cheek will do just fine Jackson.'

'Like this?' he whispered, leaning in and sliding his warm mouth across her cheek, his damp skin slightly rough and unshaven, gently grazing her own.

Lisa closed her eyes, aware only of his breathing, the feel of his lean, hard body pressed against her. The sounds of people milling to and fro around them and the tumultuous rain mingled and faded, as though someone had dipped the volume.

'That's ... that's perfect,' Lisa breathed.

Jackson pulled back and gazed at her intently, his hand stroking the back of her neck. She could tell he was struggling with what he wanted to say.

'The thing is Lise,' he said, his voice thick with feeling. 'I don't really want to say goodbye ... even though I know I have to.'

Lisa smiled, her eyes gleaming. She tipped forwards, and lightly kissed him on the lips.

She noticed he was shaking.

'And now_ you're_ freezing too,' she said, even though she knew, they both knew, this was not strictly true.

Jackson softly caressed her face, smoothing away the rainwater which was gradually drenching her hair, her clothes.

Lisa was solemnly aware that her heart was thumping wildly with anticipation inside her.

'If .. if you come to my place,' Jackson said slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed firmly on hers. 'You know what will happen, don't you?'

Lisa could scarcely breathe. He pressed closer against her, his thumb tracing the lines of her open mouth, toying with her lips, her teeth.

'How far is it?' she gasped.

'Close, very close,' he murmured.

There was a resounding clap of thunder. The rainfall had suddenly accelerated in both density and velocity. Great blank sheets of water were falling from the skies, sloshing the pavement, gurgling excitedly into the gutters.

Lisa beamed. 'I think we'd better make for a run for it,' she shouted, barely audible above the thunderous weather.

Jackson grabbed her hand and they ran.

XXXXXXXXXX

Minutes later they arrived outside a large sandstone apartment block. A discreet green awning shaded the front entrance. Hieroglyphics and Egyptian animal symbols were carved into the portico above the doorway.

'This is going to be one of those grand, old posh places, isn't it?' Lisa murmured.

Jackson lead her into the ill-lit foyer, where a gray-haired man in a green frock-coat, seated behind a marble desk, nodded a greeting.

'Good afternoon Mr Rippner,' he said courteously.

'Good afternoon,' Jackson grunted in reply.

Before them was a traditional, wrought iron elevator.

They waited for the elevator to descend. Hand in hand. Dripping water onto the black and white quarry tiled floor.

'Like I was saying,' Lisa said with a smirk on her face. 'Very posh.'

She glanced sidewards. 'It's not mine,' Jackson said quietly.

'Is it _the firm's_?' she said in deliberately dark, ominous tones.

Jackson laughed. 'God no. It was my uncle's. Well. My sort of uncle's … I'm just a tenant.'

The elevator doors clattered open and they hastened inside.

Jackson pressed the ascent button and the doors swung shut.

Finally alone, they stared at each other. Jackson advanced towards her.

He pushed her hard against the elevator wall.

'You sure about this Lise?' he whispered, his eyes searching her face, his hands fondling her skin, her hair.

She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him closer.

'Completely,' she said, aware that she was trembling.

He smiled, then kissed her greedily on the mouth, with such force her legs gave way beneath her and she was struggling to catch her breath.

He hoisted her upwards, crushing her close to his body, as he continued to kiss her. She encircled his hips with her legs, holding him tightly, cradling his head in her arms as she kissed him deeply, passionately in return.

Jackson groaned in pleasure. He slammed her back into the elevator wall.

Lisa felt dazed, overwhelmed. More excited than she could have ever imagined possible.

But then the elevator came to a halt with a violent shudder. The doors swung open to reveal a portly middle-aged lady in a dark navy mackintosh and a huge, wide-brimmed hat, who eyed them disapprovingly.

'Come on Lise. This is our stop,' Jackson said, panting, reluctantly disentangling himself.

He flashed a charming smile at the lady, who scowled in return, and lead Lisa by the hand out of the elevator and onto the landing.

XXXXXXXXXX

The landing was wide, airy, and circular. High above them, Lisa saw there was an old-fashioned chandelier, hanging precariously over a vast, hollow core, positioned behind the elevator.

There were just two doors on this floor.

Jackson's apartment was to their right, facing another apartment directly opposite.

Lisa was instantly wary. The black and white checkered tiles of the ground floor courtyard, which she had not noticed when she first entered the building as they had headed directly for the elevator, seemed a very long way down.

What unnerved her most was the strangely surreal sense that the landing itself was floating in the ether, even though common sense told her that this could hardly be the case. She looked up and saw that the landing above them was stoutly constructed, supported by vast concrete pillars, which seemed to originate from the ground floor.

'You're not scared of heights, are you?' Jackson asked.

'A little,' she admitted. 'Though, it's more fear of the building.'

'It's beautifully designed,' Jackson said.

He held out his hand for her to take hold of.

'Well. Just in case you _are _scared,' he said.

Lisa hadn't realized how frightened she was, until they walked around the landing towards Jackson's flat, away from the relative safety of the elevator and closer to the hollow heart of the building. The only barrier between the landing and the steep drop below was an ornate metal banister, which Lisa fancied to be a little too flimsy for her liking.

To her shame, she couldn't help but pin herself as close to the wall as possible.

She was also perspiring.

Jackson gently pulled her towards him, his eyes never leaving her face.

'Are you sure it's the building you're frightened of Lise, or is it me?' he asked.

Lisa pulled him close, clutching at him for comfort.

'It's not you,' she said, terrifyingly aware that she was beginning to boil over with panic.

Not now, she pleaded. Not now.

'Everything's fine. I promise,' he said soothingly. 'Stay calm.'

Jackson tenderly stroked her hair. He kissed her repeatedly on the forehead, her cheeks, her lips. But as soon as he moved away, towards his front door, Lisa could feel herself panicking again, succumbing to visions of her toppling forwards, headlong over that banister – it suddenly seemed too close.

Lisa held onto Jackson's shirt as he rummaged in his jeans pocket for a bunch of keys. He slotted a key into the lock.

Lisa smiled bravely at him. How ridiculous he must think I am, Lisa mused.

But then Jackson froze, his face instantly stiffening.

'What is it?' she asked.

Jackson pushed his ear to the door, keenly listening.

'Fuck,' he whispered.

He was about to manoeuvre Lisa away from the door, and head back to the elevator, when the front door swung open, and Alex's voice echoed around the landing.

'Jackson!' she cried. 'Where have you been?'

Loud indie rock music was blaring from inside the apartment, and there was a man's voice deep inside, laughing uproariously.

Lisa instinctively crouched down, squeezing herself tightly against the wall, to the left of the doorway, out of eye shot.

She closed her eyes, determined to fight the swirling nausea brewing up inside her.

She let her hand fall from Jackson's shirt, even though he had instantly moved leftwards, slouching against the wall, in an effort to conceal her.

'Oh, just doing stuff,' he said in a bored drawl. He was fumbling in his back pocket for something.

'Well come on in,' Alex said impatiently, kissing him on the cheek. 'Daddy's sending a car round to pick you up any minute. He's frantic to see you.'

'What for?' Jackson still hadn't budged from the doorway. He had pulled a small rectangular box out of his pocket and was desperately reaching behind himself, trying to find Lisa.

She grasped it, shoving it into her jeans pocket, strangely conscious of his warm skin, even in that briefest of contacts.

It occurred to her that she might never touch him again.

Jackson stepped into the apartment. The door was closing behind him, and yet still Lisa could hear Alex's high-pitched voice informing him that his meeting had been brought forward to tonight and Daddy had been trying to call him all afternoon.

And then the voices faded, so that all Lisa could hear was the faint blare and beat of music, throbbing in the background.

She took a deep breath, willing herself not to look straight ahead, and decided to crawl instead, on all fours, back to the elevator, focusing only on the narrow band of cold tiles directly in front of her.

Her heart was pounding frantically inside her chest and sweat was streaming down her face.

She reached the elevator, clawing herself into a standing position using the portcullis-styled grille which acted as a gateway, usually ready to spring open once the elevator arrived, and pressed the call button, tightly closing her eyes until she heard its arrival.

She opened the door and dived inside.

XXXXXXXXXX

Once outside the building, Lisa ran as fast as she could, her lungs almost bursting with the effort to get away, as far away as possible.

As soon as she returned to the hurly burly and driving rain of Fifth Avenue, Lisa hailed a cab, panting with exhaustion, marveling that she was able to find a cab so quickly in this weather.

Safe inside, she asked the driver to take her to the Sheraton Manhattan.

Only now did she dare to think about what might have happened.

Dare to look at what Jackson had given her.

She pulled the box from her pocket.

Clutched tightly in her palm was the cassette; the recording she had made of them in her bedroom, that night in Miami..The recording she had once hoped would convince the police of Jackson's identity and his involvement in the Keefe case.

It felt so long ago.

Why had he given it to her? she wondered, her throat constricted and aching from a sudden desire to sob. She wiped thick hot tears away, with her rain-soaked shirt-sleeve, then stared out of the window, at the sodden streets, the pedestrians splushing through puddled sidewalks, steering clear of the spray kicked up by passing vehicles at the curbside.

It had to be a goodbye gift. His final parting gesture. A memento, she thought. He knew how much she had wanted it. And presumably he now trusted her enough to have it. To not reveal his true identity to the police, to not expose his complicity in the Keefe case.

Unless ...

What if ... What if he expected, even hoped she _would_ play this tape to the police? Might that mean he _wanted_ the Keefe case to be re-opened? And if so, why?

That would only mean one thing. That he felt his own life was in serious danger. Serious enough to pass the tape on to her. As insurance.

Lisa sighed, terrified of the fear and confusion bubbling up inside of her. She had to think this through, very carefully.


	11. Rigoletto

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for all the great reviews. They are very much appreciated, each and every one. A warning for those with a delicate disposition, towards the end of this chapter, the narrative takes something of a 'darker' turn.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN – Rigoletto**

'So you're telling me that you actually _met_ this Jackson character yesterday afternoon?' Charley asked, as she stuffed a forkful of bacon and scrambled egg into her mouth. 'Don't you think that's a tad dangerous Lisa, in view of his past record?'

Lisa sighed. 'Probably.'

But not for the reason Charley envisaged, as she increasingly feared she was more in danger from her own feelings, than anything Jackson might actually do to her.

Since her abrupt departure from Jackson's apartment building yesterday afternoon, she had been in turmoil. She didn't know how, when or why she had evolved such a strong emotional response to him.

It seemed a nonsense, particularly after the angst and fear he had subjected her to.

But there it was. She couldn't help it. Couldn't help herself from feeling terrified that Jackson had not been wholly honest with her, and that his own life was possibly in danger.

Why else had he given her the tape?

'I mean ... you say he was watching my apartment two nights ago,' Charley continued. 'How the heck did he know where I lived? Has that occurred to you?' She then looked around, trying to catch the attention of a passing waiter. She signaled for fresh coffee. 'Might as well get what we can ... this is on tab, huh?'

Lisa smiled. 'Sure. It's all billed to the Keefe campaign.'

Lisa toyed with her breakfast; a hotel buffet special, comprising typically sloppy scrambled eggs, greasy rashers of bacon and some insipid squidgy-looking mushrooms which resembled a collection of small brown slugs congregating on the side of her plate.

She had little appetite after a restless night. Made worse by the fact that Charley didn't show up until this morning, after a crazed night out with some friends she'd met while shopping yesterday afternoon in Bloomingdales. She'd forgotten her agreement to stay at The Sheraton Manhattan, instead rolling back to her apartment at four in the morning, only to find she was locked out and forced to call an emergency locksmith.

'And you say Jackson gave you a tape?' Charley asked, eyeing her friend thoughtfully. Lisa nodded.

'A tape you made of a conversation you and Jackson once had in Miami ... which said what exactly?'

Lisa blinked back tears. Why had she ever got herself involved in this almighty mess? It all seemed so silly, so sordid.

'It was a dialogue ... well, more an argument ... where he stated who he was, and ...' She leaned closer across the table to speak in a whisper to Charley, only just avoiding spludging fried tomato stains on her pale blue blouse. 'He admits his involvement in the plot to kill Charles Keefe.'

Charley smirked. 'So this is the famous tape you made while making out?'

'That's ... beside the point Charley,' Lisa said, reddening.

'Sure it is,' Charley said, watching her over the rim of her coffee cup.

'Can I hear it?' Charley asked.

Lisa shrugged. 'I don't have a player.'

Charley looked pensive. 'I tell you what Lisa. Let's finish up. You pop back upstairs to your room and give me a few minutes. I've an idea.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Charley soon arrived with an old-fashioned Sony Walkman, which she had procured from reception.

'It's a temporary loan ... someone might come back and reclaim this one day, although it's been stuck in lost property for five years,' she giggled.

'You really want to hear it?' Lisa said, strangely reluctant to pass the tape to Charley.

It felt like a small betrayal.

'I'm interested to see just how explosive this stuff actually is,' Charley said in surprisingly matter-of-fact tones. 'If you're dead set on still handing this tape over to the police, you'd better have some idea just how badly this might screw up lover boy.'

'He's not my _lover boy_,' Lisa said, exasperated. 'Nothing like ... .'

'So why are you still holding on to the tape? Why aren't you currently discussing its contents with your nearest NYPD officer?' Charley asked.

Charley opened the mini-bar. 'Is this on tab too?' she asked. Lisa didn't know.

Charley pulled out a mini bottle of Jack Daniels, cracked open the seal and poured it into a tumbler.

'You've just had breakfast,' Lisa scolded, pacing the room impatiently.

'Best hangover cure I know,' Charley mumbled. She perched herself on the edge of the bed, and thrust out a hand to ambush Lisa as she passed. Lisa was still clutching the tape.

'Come on. Hand it over,' Charley said.

Lisa passed the tape to Charley who slotted it into the Walkman, then pushed the headphones onto her ears and pressed play.

She listened intently, a concentrated frown on her face.

Lisa waited anxiously. She sank onto the couch facing Charley, who was sprawling on the bed.

After what felt like an age later, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Charley slipped the headphones off, a stern expression on her face.

'OK, you want my opinion?' she asked.

Lisa was chewing her nails, a habit she thought she'd given up over twenty years ago. She nodded mutely.

'This would see your friend in court, for sure, and likely imprisoned.'

'So you say I do nothing?'

'This is as good as a full confession. Although a decent lawyer might claim it's inadmissible evidence, seeing as you effectively set up a honey trap … and I'm not sure that's legal.'

'Maybe it's admissible in some states and not in others?'

'Whatever. You need a lawyer Lisa. I'm just a poor, struggling artist. Who am I to know?' Charley flashed Lisa a bright, reassuring smile. She gulped back her Jack Daniels, swilling it around her mouth, before swallowing.

'What about a police officer?' Lisa asked, largely to herself, as she suddenly recalled how Officer Novelli had insisted she call him if she had any concerns.

Well. Surely _this_ counted.

Charley shook her head vehemently. 'Bad move Lisa. Any law-abiding police officer – and there's still a fair few of them out there – would feel compelled to investigate further.'

'But I know someone … he was going to help me out before,' Lisa remonstrated.

'You first need to speak with this Jackson guy. Clarify his intentions.'

Lisa sighed. 'He's in the Hamptons. Some business meeting.'

'Can you call him?'

'I don't have his number. Whenever he calls me, for some weird reason, the number is never stored on my cell,' Lisa said fretfully.

Charley slipped the tape out of the Walkman, and studied it. 'Have you just the one copy?'

Lisa nodded.

'OK. Here's what we do,' Charley said efficiently. 'I'll keep hold of this and get a copy made. I've got a double tape deck in my apartment. And meanwhile, you find a way of contacting lover boy.'

Lisa opened her mouth to contradict her, yet again, but Charley blithely carried on.

'You need to see if he wants you to go to the police … 'cause if he does Lisa, that means there's some heavy shit going on … and _you're_ involved too, whether you like it or not.'

'I know.'

'So it's best you don't keep this on your person,' Charley said finally, snapping open her purse and dropping the tape inside.

Again, Lisa nodded.

Charley was right. They could do with a back-up copy. And it had already occurred to her too, that if Jackson feared for his own well being, then she might also be in some danger. Better to have the one piece of evidence which could re-open the Keefe case, as far away from herself as possible.

But now she had to find Jackson, or at least hope he contacted _her_, as soon as conveniently possible.

She chewed her nails anxiously.

'Hey kid!' Charley exclaimed, reaching out and batting her friend's hands from her mouth. 'Enough of that! We've got a plan … a good plan. Just call this Beauchamps place where Jackson works. Or drop by. Get hold of his cell number.'

If only it was that easy, Lisa thought with an inward groan. But of course Charley had no idea that Jackson actually worked for George De Bowen – who also happened to be Charley's main sponsor and benefactor.

_Best to leave it that way._

'I've got to get ready to meet Charles Keefe,' Lisa said breezily, in a bold attempt to pep herself up. 'I'll probably get to see him later this morning. I'll … handle Jackson later.'

'Sure. It's your call,' Charley said, suppressing a yawn. 'Shit man. I'm pooped.'

Not surprising, Lisa thought, looking at the empty Jack Daniels bottle.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was called by Talbot Haynes a few hours later.

Keefe had finally arrived in New York, late last night, but a day earlier than expected, booking into the Presidential Suite at The Sheraton New York, where he had originally hoped to talk with Lisa this morning.

Unfortunately, his visit to New York had excited far greater interest than first anticipated. His morning had already been inundated with press requests for interviews and a few prominent fundraisers had petitioned him to attend a string of events in New York state over the next couple of days – events he felt it rude to ignore.

Lisa realized, with a rapidly sinking feeling, that she was being _bumped_ again.

All she wanted to do, was pay her respects to Keefe – if only for his hospitality in recent days – and head home to Miami. Jackson had warned her to get out of New York as soon as possible, and she increasingly felt the need to heed his words.

Talbot explained that Charles had a major studio interview that afternoon and a fundraising dinner that evening, so unless he managed to squeeze in a quick one-to-one with Lisa very late tonight, she'd have to wait until the following morning.

Lisa agreed to visit the Presidential Suite for a late 'nightcap' as Talbot put it.

At least then her commitments in New York would be out of the way; the opera got through, and Keefe sorted.

Tomorrow she would be free.

XXXXXXXXXX

Charley had headed out to go shopping on Madison Avenue some hours ago, hoping to find _appropriate_ opera attire, as she put it – although Lisa thought she had plenty enough nice clothes, and that really, going to the opera wasn't so fancy anymore.

She realized she might have got this very wrong when Colm Buchanan, very handsomely dressed in a tuxedo, arrived, unannounced, at her hotel room.

Lisa was immediately thrown into disarray. She was slumped on her bed, half-heartedly watching a re-run of _Oprah_, a lurid green face pack smeared on her face, when the door buzzer burst into action.

For one fleeting but joyous moment she hoped it might be Jackson.

Colm didn't seem to realize he was some forty-five minutes early. He was _supposed_ to arrive at six thirty.

'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' Colm said casually, settling himself onto the couch with an air of natural entitlement which Lisa found especially riling. 'And where's your friend Charlotte?'

'_Charley_,' Lisa said emphatically. She hoped Charley didn't like Colm as much as she had made out, otherwise she might be sorely disappointed.

'She's out. Shopping,' Lisa informed him in curt tones. 'Do you mind if I go freshen up?'

Colm grinned. 'Feel free.' He folded his arms over his chest and gave her a long, appraising look. Lisa could feel herself blush hotly under his scrutinizing gaze.

Lisa was glad to escape to the bathroom, but was soon overcome with an acute sense of self-awareness that she was standing naked in the shower cubicle, aware that Colm could hear the running water and probably knew this too.

She hastened out of the shower, quickly towel-drying her hair, ruing the fact that she had carelessly left her dress – simple, red and tightly-fitted – hanging over a chair in the bedroom.

Colm was checking his bow tie in the mirror when she entered. He jumped guiltily. Her eyes instantly flicked to her suitcase, which was open. Had he been poking around? she thought suspiciously.

But a brief moment later and he was smiling, seemingly at ease.

'You caught me,' he said.

Lisa looked at him quizzically, wrapping herself more firmly into a huge white enveloping towel she had tightly wound around her body.

'I was being vain,' he explained.

Lisa smiled, then she quickly grabbed her dress, along with some underwear, stockings and suspenders, and headed back to the bathroom to get dressed and apply a little bit of makeup.

Where the hell has Charley got to? she thought, increasingly uncomfortable at Colm's presence in her bedroom. Why hadn't he just waited in reception, like any reasonable human being?

XXXXXXXXXXX

Soon afterwards, she was in the elevator with Colm.

Charley still hadn't arrived, and Lisa was increasingly anxious.

'She knows where to go,' Colm said coolly.

'I'd better leave a message for her,' Lisa said, heading straight for reception once they had exited the elevator.

Lisa swiftly wrote a note, which she handed to the receptionist, informing Charley that she had already set off for _Rigoletto_, and hoped to see her later.

Colm had a car waiting outside.

'Talbot's a little late … says he'll follow on afterwards,' he said.

Lisa could hardly believe that she was thinking this, but the prospect of seeing Talbot Haynes was a very welcome one indeed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was sure they would be early for the opera, but there was already a sizeable crowd milling in the grand plaza at the Lincoln Center, thronging around a central fountain. The Metropolitan Opera House itself was lit up inside, shimmering invitingly through the tall, graciously arched windows which dominated the building's elegant front façade.

Lisa couldn't help thrilling at the sight.

Colm quickly ushered her inside.

'I should wait for Charley to show,' Lisa said. But Colm linked his arm through hers and firmly steered her towards a bar.

'Let's enjoy a glass of champagne together,' he said, grinning. 'Charley's a big girl. I'm sure she'll find us soon enough.'

'No Colm. I insist,' Lisa said, untangling her arm from his grip. However, just as she was about to break free, Talbot Haynes, shiny-faced, his tall spindly figure firmly trussed into an ill-fitting suit, was fast approaching.

'Lisa! Colm!' he squeaked excitedly. 'I managed to get away … finally. Hugely successful afternoon at NBC,' he added with gusto, seizing the glass of champagne Colm offered him. 'Charles was just great. Impeccable. Perfect.'

'Glad to hear it,' Colm said.

Lisa nodded politely, her eyes constantly darting towards the open doorways, imploring Charley to come striding towards them.

'Have you seen _Rigoletto_ before?' Talbot asked, forcing her to address him in return.

'No … I've rarely been to the opera.'

'Well you're in for a treat Lisa,' Talbot said, grinning with what Lisa realized was genuine boyish fervour about the opera in prospect. 'This was the first major musical triumph of Verdi's middle period,' he added, assuming a learned air.

'Leave it out Talbot,' Colm snapped. 'The girl's not wanting one of your bloody musical appreciation lectures.'

Lisa instantly felt protective towards Talbot, who she saw shrink a little under Colm's sneering rebuttal.

'I would _love_ to know more, Talbot,' she said defiantly.

Talbot brightened. 'Well, Verdi … as you know … is one of the great operatic composers. Italian. Nineteenth Century. And _Rigoletto_ is something of a tragedy, when all's said and done. Although it has its lighter moments.'

Colm brusquely intervened, shoving a program into Lisa's hands. 'Here. It's all in here.'

He smiled winningly at Lisa.

It struck Lisa that Colm was actually fighting for her attention, and not being overly gracious about it in the process.

She glanced at the plot synopsis, Talbot craning to share her view. He trailed a long, thin finger down the page.

'You see Lisa,' he murmured. 'It's about this Duke, who's a bit of a womanizing cad.'

Lisa could hear Colm snickering behind her.

'… and he falls for this beautiful girl he sees in church one day. And he has this fool … a court jester.'

'Rigoletto,' Colm interjected in his burnished baritone, booming in Lisa's ear.

Talbot nodded. 'And he hates the corruption and evil he sees in society, even though he is part of it, so he prefers to hide his daughter away … away from harm. But one day the Duke comes to visit her, pretending to be a humble student. You see _she_ was the girl he saw in church. He professes his love, and she falls for him. But then, Rigoletto's enemies abduct his daughter… .'

'Gilda. Her name's Gilda,' Colm said.

Talbot sighed, huffily. 'Yes. Gilda. And poor old Rigoletto even assists them. Unwittingly, of course. Anyway, the Duke is very sad that Gilda has been abducted until he is told by his noblemen that she is actually waiting for him in his bedchamber, so off he goes to ... well ... seal his conquest. Meanwhile Rigoletto is heartbroken. Gilda, however, continues to love the Duke, despite his ill-use of her and his appalling reputation. Even though ... she is now effectively ruined.'

'Why? What has she done?' Lisa asked.

'In those days, a woman's virtue was all important.'

A loud bell clanged, alerting the gaggle of people crowding the bar and the foyer that the show was soon to commence. Colm instantly pulled Lisa away from the bar, guiding her towards the theater.

Talbot trotted after them, a peevish scowl on his face as he had been unable to finish his story.

'Oh hell. Charley's not come,' Lisa said.

'Yes she has,' Colm muttered, as Charley bounded towards them.

'Oh man!' she shrilled. 'That was a close call. I was stuck at this god awful bar in Gramercy Park … a friend's birthday bash. I nearly forgot! … hey guys, do you like my frock?'

She twirled, showing off a gauzy pink number, cut into what Lisa could only describe as 'interesting' tatters.

Colm grinned broadly. 'You're a feast for the eyes, milady.'

Charley colored with pleasure at what she perceived to be a compliment, although Lisa wasn't so sure that was how it was intended.

XXXXXXXXXX

Colm's parterre box, situated to the side of the stalls, ensured they had an excellent view of the opera. Lisa loved every minute, relishing the singing, the music. She was moved most particularly by the loving relationship between Rigoletto and his daughter, and his efforts to protect her.

Her thoughts often flitted to Jackson, wondering if _he_ liked opera. Wondering what he would think of the singers – particularly the young Russian soprano singing Gilda, whose voice effortlessly soared to the highest points of the musical register, like a beautiful bird taking flight.

At times, in the darkened theatre, Lisa almost felt or at least desired Jackson's presence, so much so, she couldn't suppress a flicker of hot-blooded spite when Colm accidentally brushed his knee against hers, then left it, lingering, his thigh warm against hers.

She edged away, _hoping _it was an accident.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Luckily Charley seemed to wholly preoccupy Colm during the first interval.

Colm had ordered a fresh bottle of Cristal, and bagged a table in advance in the intermission bar reserved for parterre ticket holders only.

Lisa thanked Talbot for his synopsis thus far of the opera. He told her that the Duke, unfortunately, would soon prove to be a faithless, nasty, misogynistic piece of work, and that Rigoletto would decide to murder him.

'Good job too,' Lisa smirked.

Talbot frowned. 'Sadly Gilda, who somehow _still _loves him, even though she sees him flirting with another woman, decides to sacrifice herself for the Duke instead.'

'What do you mean?' Lisa asked, alarmed.

'I warned you it was a tragedy,' Talbot said with a cheerless shrug of the shoulders. He swigged back some champagne. 'She infiltrates her father's assassination plot, and pretends to be the Duke, hiding in a sack intended for him, meaning _she_ gets killed instead of the Duke. Her father discovers the gory truth and they sing together as she dies in his arms.'

'Shit no!' Lisa said, seriously rattled at this outcome.

'It's spine-tingling,' Talbot said lugubriously. 'The final duet is something else.'

'That's so unfair,' Lisa muttered. She thumbed through the program half-heartedly, hoping to hide the unexpected wave of emotion which washed through her. She hated that Gilda had to die. And that it was her own father who inadvertently killed her … it was too much.

She then spotted the familiar curly S-loop of the De Bowens corporate logo. Slap bang at the head of the sponsors page with a mini-biography of George De Bowen.

So they weren't just interested in painting, but all the arts, she thought. She imagined George De Bowen, smiling graciously with due gravitas and dignity at the mere mortals who had ventured to one of _his _operas.

It seemed incongruous that such a man might also be the chief architect of the Keefe assassination plot.

But she believed Jackson. Completely.

Talbot was watching her closely. 'Such a great, great guy,' he said, pointing to the tiny black and white photo of George accompanying his biography. 'Used to be a big-time fundraiser, and a good friend to Charles too.'

'Really?' Lisa asked, genuinely taken aback at this news.

'Oh yes. And he's still a big party man.'

'So what went wrong?' Lisa asked, curious.

Talbot pondered this question for a few moments. 'You know, I'm not entirely sure. But they fell out. We all feared De Bowen might take his money to Fitch, but he seemed to pull away from politics altogether. Now he puts his money into the arts instead.'

Talbot suddenly grimaced. 'Hey Lisa. Don't mention this to Charles when you see him later.'

'Don't worry. I won't.'

'He still doesn't like to hear about him. Doesn't even like to hear De Bowen's name. Says he's not called the Axeman of Wall Street for nothing.'

Lisa suddenly felt her insides spinning frantically. _The Axeman of Wall Street_?

'Why … why is he called that?' she asked tentatively. 'He looks such a … congenial old man.'

Talbot laughed. 'You're joking, right? Sure, he's a real gent … but he's damned ruthless in business. Takes no prisoners, you know what I mean?'

Lisa nodded, unable to speak. Her throat felt dry and constricted and she was struggling for air.

If De Bowen's nickname was The Axeman, did that mean the computer virus which had invaded the systems at the Lux Atlantic was in fact a warning … to her, from him? The virus had been preceded by a single image, Cynthia had said, of an axeman … with the words, _The Axeman Cometh_.

Cometh where? To Miami?

Her head reeled with this fresh information. Had the virus simply been a sign that he, they, whoever and whatever De Bowen's organization truly represented, knew that _she_ had been in communication with Jackson?

And did Jackson know this already?

'You OK Lisa?' Talbot asked, concerned at her sudden morosity. He poured more champagne into her glass.

'I'm fine,' she whispered.

Thankfully, the bell rang, saving Lisa from Talbot's prying attentions.

'Colm suggests we go for a drink after the show. You up for it?' Charley said to Lisa, her eyes shining with excitement.

'I can't,' Lisa said. 'I'm meeting Keefe.'

'Again?' Charley asked.

Lisa pulled a face. 'Nope. This is third ... actually, it might even be the fourth time lucky … I've lost count.'

XXXXXXXXXX

The next act flew by in a flash. Lisa could hardly concentrate. Her mind was reeling with the thought that even Miami might not be the safe haven she - and clearly Jackson too - had once hoped. Of course it was probably folly to think that _anywhere_ would be safe when dealing with a man of the power and resources of a George De Bowen.

She was relieved when the next interval came and she was able to get out of the theater, desperate for fresh air and a moment's respite from Talbot's well-intended but irritating babble and the oppressive sense that Colm was watching her every move, even whilst being talked to death by Charley who was in full-on flirtatious hyperdrive.

Other theatergoers had congregated outside, chiefly around the fountain.

Lisa was so desperate to see Jackson, to talk with him, she even fancied, for one fleeting moment, that she _had_ seen him, a lean, shadowy figure, loitering to the left of the crowd, then skulking out of sight.

Lisa was so driven with hope – however false – she found herself running in that direction.

But there was no one there.

She now faced Columbus Avenue, and seeing an available cab, she was half-tempted just to jump inside and take off. Sod the meeting with Keefe. She didn't want to work in politics anyway. And home to Miami. Home to Dad, who she had badly neglected since this whole nasty business had gotten underway.

Home to reality.

Thinking of her Dad made her realize that she had missed talking to him. A voice of reason. Of normalcy.

She plucked her cell phone from her purse and switched it on.

Instantly she saw she had three voicemail messages.

The first was from Charley, explaining that she was late. The second was from her father, who was sounding decidedly agitated that he had not heard from her. She resolved to call him immediately.

But then she heard the third message.

It was Jackson.

He wanted to speak to her and had left a number for her to call.

Lisa's fingers were trembling as she dialed. This had to be bad. Scary bad. She could feel it in her bones.

After a long wait, Jackson finally answered.

'Lisa?' he said.

'Yes, it's me.'

'OK, listen Lise, I'm going to be real quick … .'

She was straining to make out his voice, almost as though he was walking through wind.

'Sure. Where are you?'

'On a roof-top. In New York,' he said. 'The thing is Lise, I've got a bad feeling … .'

For a brief moment his voice seemed to fade away, then he returned. 'Can you hear me?'

'Just about,' Lisa replied, her heart beating frantically. 'Go on.'

'Look, I think it's best you get out of town _tonight_. If you can.'

'Why?' she asked, aware of a ghastly sickening in her stomach. 'Why so soon?'

'Something Alex said. She knows a lot more about you than I thought.'

'Like what?'

Jackson sighed. 'There's a fundraiser, for Keefe, coming up sometime this week in New York. She's been invited. She mentioned, in passing, that we met a girl at Charley's art show who once saved his life. She … she doesn't know that I know you.'

'Did she say this to you _alone_?'

'Yeah. I've no idea if she's said anything to her father. I mean it's not the stuff of everyday chit-chat … and he's been pretty wrapped up … .'

His voice momentarily went out of range, then drifted back again.

'Jackson. The virus at work, I told you about,' Lisa blurted. '… There was a picture. Of an axeman.'

There was a long pause at Jackson's end. 'You know that could just be kids Lise.'

'But De Bowen … it's what they call De Bowen,' Lisa said, struggling to suppress the panic in her voice. 'Jackson? Did you get that? Are you there?'

'… OK, look … this is a bad connection. I'd better call off now, but I just wanted to be sure you knew what was going on. That you know to get yourself home.'

Lisa fell silent. Was that really it? No instructions. No offers of further assistance. No apologies for this whole damned mess.

'Lisa?' Jackson asked. 'Lisa. Are you still there?'

'Sure. I'm here,' Lisa sighed wearily.

The performance bell was clanging, recalling everyone to their seats. The plaza was gradually clearing.

'You heard what I said?'

'Yes, Jackson.' she snapped. 'Except I can't just go running off on a whim, this second, however much I want to. It's just … not polite. I'm at the opera with Keefe's guys. And I'm seeing their boss tonight. After that, I can do what I like.'

'Cancel,' Jackson said sharply. 'Why take unnecessary risks?'

'And what about you?'

'What about me?'

'Well, _you're _not running away, are you?'

Jackson laughed bitterly. 'I can look after myself. I've dealt with worse. … And don't forget, I'm marrying the boss's daughter. I'm almost untouchable.'

'How very convenient,' Lisa said sarcastically.

'Look Lise. You've got the tape right?' Jackson said, a little more urgently now. 'Hold it safe. Don't destroy it.'

'I wasn't going to,' she said softly.

'You never know. It might come in handy one of these days. If … if something happens to me.'

'How would I know?'

'You'd know,' Jackson said. 'I promise.'

Lisa could hear a burble of voices in the background. And then Jackson was gone.

Slowly, reluctantly, she switched off her phone, aware of the insistent ringing of the theater bell. She spun round to return to the opera house, almost colliding with Colm Buchanan, who was rapidly striding towards her.

'Lisa. There you are,' he said in his warm, smooth tones. 'We thought we'd lost you.'

'I was just making a call,' she muttered.

'The show's about to start,' he said, snaking his arm around her waist and drawing her close. Lisa could smell his after-shave; a clean, bracing odour. He led her back inside.

XXXXXXXXXXX

What had he meant? _If something happens to me_ … just how much imminent danger was Jackson really in? This was far worse than she'd first feared.

Lisa's head was alive with a jumble of thoughts, gut-churning fears, rolling through her, as she sat in the corner of Colm Buchanan's parterre box. She was so highly strung she could hardly breathe. Her chest felt tight and sore.

She was almost too frightened to think about her current situation, the possible consequences … yet almost too frightened to focus either on the stage before her, as Gilda's tragedy gradually unfolded and the Duke's morally vacuous perfidy ultimately revealed.

Somehow every note, every quaver, seemed to pierce her emotionally, stoking her into a fizz of feeling.

There was an outstanding quartet, a melding of voices so sweet, she could hardly hold back the tears at the beauty of it all.

However, she gave in during the final glorious duet, allowing her tears to fall thick and fast down her cheeks, as Rigoletto cried out in anguish, as he held his daughter in his arms, her voice soaring skywards, even as she was dying.

Yet this heart-stopping moment was almost ruined, by the uncanny sensation that she was being watched.

Sure enough, Colm Buchanan, who was wedged beside her, was gazing at her with rapt attention, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. And somehow his witnessing her unguarded display of emotion felt particularly intrusive.

Lisa's resentment was interrupted by a tumultuous burst of applause which let rip from the audience. The singers were taking their bows and many in the audience were standing, to demonstrate their support.

For one brief moment, Lisa forgot her worries and fears, and felt herself uplifted, even moved, by the collective outpouring of appreciation. Charley was standing too, clapping and whooping at the top of her voice, clearly lost in the moment. Lisa couldn't help but grin at her indomitable, spirited friend, who never cared what people thought of her.

'We'd best get going,' murmured Colm.

'Sure,' Lisa said politely.

XXXXXXXXXX

The four of them huddled together outside the theater. Lisa was glad she had brought a thick black wrap with her. The temperature was rapidly dropping. Charley's flimsy outfit seemed particularly ill equipped to deal with a harsh, wintry breeze which was suddenly gusting across the plaza towards them. She shivered, clutching her arms for warmth, sidling close to Colm for extra protection. Colm smiled benignly, and to Lisa's surprise, he pulled her closer.

Maybe Charley had finally hooked her fish, after what had been a determined effort all evening, Lisa thought wryly.

'Are you sure you have to go see this Keefe guy _now_?' Charley moaned to Lisa.

Lisa pulled a face. 'He's a busy man.'

'I'll escort you back to the hotel,' Talbot offered.

'Hey, you promised me a drink, don't you remember?' Colm said cheerily.

Talbot grimaced. 'I've got a family to get home to … and it's late enough as it is.'

Colm looked troubled. 'One drink won't be hurting ya Talbot, come along,' he urged, his native accent suddenly harsh and grating.

But Talbot stood his ground. 'I've a young lady to attend to,' he said, indicating Lisa.

'Thank you,' Lisa said, smiling. And she meant it too. After speaking with Jackson, she didn't fancy wandering the streets of New York on her own. And she was slightly surprised that the ever gentlemanly Colm Buchanan hadn't rushed to escort her himself.

But instead, his attention now seemed to be firmly focused on Charley, and their next destination.

Charley planted a sloppy kiss on Lisa's cheek. 'Give me a call in the morning Hon,' she said. 'Hope all goes well.'

'You're going home then?'

'Yeah. I've changed the locks, remember? I'll be safe as houses,' Charley said in low tones.

'And … I'm thinking I might have some company,' Charley added, gesticulating towards Colm, who was talking with Talbot.

'I see,' Lisa said. 'Well, look after yourself.'

'I will,' Charley said, with a wink.

Talbot was already waiting for Lisa. They walked through the plaza together towards Columbus Avenue. There was a throng of operagoers waiting for cabs, or standing in line at the bus stop, so they decided to push on, tripping down the steps leading from the Lincoln Center Plaza to the sidewalk. They headed towards Midtown.

'It's gotten nippy,' Talbot said, wrapping his coat a little closer around his lanky form.

'Thanks again for walking with me,' Lisa said.

'You're welcome Lisa,' Talbot said. 'And it's only fair that I deposit you safely with Charles, seeing as I've dragged you all the way from Miami for what's going to be a very brief meeting I'm afraid.'

'Oh don't worry about that. It's been fun,' Lisa said, sharply aware of the irony of that statement. She was simply desperate to get this whole business over with.

They paused a moment, hoping to spot an available cab, but were out of luck. They reached the junction of Columbus Avenue and Sixty-Second Street.

'We should take a left here,' Talbot said. 'We'll soon hit Broadway where there'll be more cabs.'

They crossed Columbus Avenue and headed onto Sixty-Second Street, which was a lot less trafficked this time of night, with cars moving one-way, but in the opposite direction to where they were headed.

Lisa felt a little uneasy, speeding up a little, in the hope of hitting Broadway that bit quicker.

'Looks like you might get home pretty late,' Lisa said grimly, panting a little.

Talbot shrugged. 'Marlene's used to it unfortunately. It's the nature of the beast.' He cast a sidelong look at Lisa. 'I mean my line of work. It's very time-intensive.'

'But very rewarding.'

'I hope so,' Talbot said eagerly. 'That's what I tell myself! Once President Keefe has been duly elected, I can get home to Marlene and the kids any time, any day … until the next campaign comes along.'

They arrived at a wide junction with Broadway. But there was hardly a cab in sight, even though the sidewalks were surprisingly packed with people.

'We ain't gonna get much luck here,' Talbot murmured. 'I say we push onto Central Park, and even if we don't get a cab, it's not _too_ great a walk from there to Seventh Avenue.'

Lisa concurred, although deep down she would rather have stuck to the bright lights and bustle of Broadway. Instead they plunged further into the comparative stillness of Sixty-Second Street as it stretched from Broadway towards Central Park West.

Lisa's sense of unease was swiftly magnified by the almost complete lack of traffic in this section of Sixty-Second Street, and the sudden unnerving quiet, as the sounds of Broadway faded behind them. There were large-scale building operations in place on both sides of the street, forcing them to walk under poorly lit covered wooden walkways; the outcrops of extensive scaffolding structures, attached to darkened high-rise office and apartment blocks.

Lisa could hear her own breathing, tense and labored, as they walked.

Talbot's steps close behind her were a source of comfort.

'I'm not liking this,' she said, trying to inject a note of laughter into her voice.

'Maybe we should have stuck to Broadway,' Talbot murmured. 'Just a little bit further and we'll hit civilization,' he joked.

A couple of cars passed them, which Lisa found oddly reassuring. Better not to be alone, she thought.

However, she was mindful that one of the cars had stopped, pulling into the opposite curb. She hurried on. She could see a clump of trees and a busier road just moments ahead.

Suddenly a tall, stocky man was blocking her path.

He seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

Lisa gasped in shock. She braked fast, then tried to push beyond him, but he grasped her wrists and pulled her roughly against him, his arm hoisting her upwards by the neck, with such force, she could hardly breathe, let alone scream. He dragged her to the end of the walkway.

Talbot emerged from the shadows, after them, and seeing that Lisa was under attack, he launched himself at the man, a terrified yet furious look on his face.

'Get your hands off her!' he yelled.

The tall man simply kicked him to the ground, but Talbot scrabbled to his feet, intent on pursuing them.

Lisa now saw what Talbot couldn't. That another man, young, clean-cut and horribly familiar, was hastening across the street towards him.

Lisa desperately tried to cry out, to warn Talbot, but the tall man holding her, clapped an expansive hand over her mouth, forcing her against his stationary car, crushing his body against hers so that she was unable to move, despite her frenzied attempts to wriggle out from his grasp.

Only now did Talbot notice the second man.

He tried to run, his eyes wide with fear, but was instantly hauled backwards by his coat, falling clumsily against his attacker who held him tight.

Talbot writhed desperately, whimpering fearfully.

Lisa froze in horror, the moment she saw the glint of cold metal. In a single brisk movement, the clean-cut young man drew the knife across Talbot's throat.

Talbot staggered forwards, as if dazed, and fell face down onto the sidewalk.

Lisa couldn't help the tears streaming down her face, the muted cry of anguish that was choking her. She was trembling all over, convulsed with fear.

The tall man opened a door and shoved her inside the car, where she crumpled against the back seat.

His associate, who she recognized as the same Brody from the art show and Charley's apartment, got into the driver's seat. He reached over to the passenger's side and pulled out a small box from the dashboard glove compartment. Lisa saw there was a syringe inside.

'No!' she shrieked. But instantly the tall man smacked her into silence with a heavy fist pounding her jaw. He grabbed the syringe and despite her ferocious squirming and kicking, he rolled up her skirt and plunged the needle into her thigh.

Lisa gasped out loud at the sudden shooting pain before being overwhelmed by a powerful heady wave of nausea. Dark spots crowded into her eyes and she felt a rush of blankness surge through her.

XXXXXXXXXX

The blank darkness gradually began to melt into brightness, mingled with the low hum of voices.

'Oh good! She's coming round,' a man was screeching excitedly.

Lisa rolled her head, trying to ease the tooth-jangling pain surging through her jaw. Her head struck a hard wooden board behind her, which she realized was probably the back of a tall, stiff-backed chair. She blinked her eyes open, squinting at two faces, bearing down on her.

She instantly recognized Brody, and with a further sinking feeling, saw that his companion was none other than George De Bowen, inspecting her with the same twitchy-nosed curiosity one would expect of a zoologist inspecting his latest find.

'Marvelous,' he said. 'Miss Reisert's finally decided to join the party.'

Lisa squealed in panic. She tried to stand up but soon realized she had been bound to the chair, her legs trussed together with thick plastic twine, her arms attached to her chair's armrests.

'Where am I?' she cried.

De Bowen grinned at Brody before answering.

'You're paying me a visit,' he said with what seemed like infantile glee. Lisa half-expected him to skip around in circles, cackling with goblin laughter.

Brody stood next to Lisa, his face a stiff mask of austere professionalism.

Lisa peered, dazed, into the bright light of a lamp, perched on a side-table to her right. The table was between herself and an expansive, red leather armchair.

Bit by bit, she was piecing together the events that had led to her being here. The full horror of what had happened.

George settled himself onto this armchair, a self-satisfied look on his face. He picked up a glass tumbler half-filled with rich, brown whiskey, from the side-table, and cradled it in his hands.

'I'd offer you a drink Miss Reisert,' he said. 'But I can't afford to untie you I'm afraid. My man says you're a bit of a wildcat.'

'You didn't have to kill Talbot,' Lisa croaked tearfully, recalling with a sudden hot flush of anger, Talbot's lifeless body, prostrate on the ground.

'He was in the way,' George said coolly.

'He was harmless,' she gasped, overwhelmed by a fierce surge of hatred, which almost took her breath away. 'He didn't deserve it.'

George sighed, as if bored. 'There's really no point upsetting yourself Miss Reisert. You hardly knew the man.'

'That's ... that's not the point,' she said in tremulous tones.

'Well. It _is_ actually,' George chided. 'Better to save your tears for when it really matters my dear.'

He nonchalantly sipped his whiskey. 'Now ... Enough of this misery. It turns your nose all red and shiny ... which is a shame, as you have such a pretty little nose.'

Then, in jolly tones.

'I tell you what. Now that we're all here, we might as well begin having some _fun_, mightn't we?' He nodded to Brody who hastened away.

Lisa quickly scanned her surroundings, desperately trying to assess any possible escape routes, even though she was currently bound to a chair. She was in what looked to be a windowless, book-lined, wood-paneled study, which led to an adjoining antechamber, which she couldn't see into from her current angle. A pendulous chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, which was high and ornate, and there was a grand marble fireplace.

Above the fireplace was a broad painted canvas – bold brush-strokes depicting a series of skyscrapers, trees, streets and oddly twisted people, in grays, greens and blacks. The florid style was instantly familiar to her. The painting was clearly one of Charley's – maybe even _Manhattan Jungle_, which she had sold to the De Bowens, and presumed to be hanging in George De Bowen's flash Fifth Avenue apartment.

So that's where she was. And this room, this was George's personal retreat.

'I see you're admiring your friend's handiwork,' George said, referring to _Manhattan Jungle_.

Lisa suddenly realized, almost faint with relief, that Charley too would have been in peril – like poor Talbot – if she had dared to head back to the hotel with _her_, rather than opt to go home to her apartment instead.

'She's … she's very talented,' she said, her mouth suddenly dry.

'Yes. This is one of her better works in my opinion. She can get a bit _beyond_ herself, at times. Still. My daughter's a big fan … and I do like to please my little Alex,' George said. 'Such an artistic soul.'

'She has fine taste,' Lisa added politely, wondering if her best approach in this situation might be flattery rather than bile.

'Yes … she has a good eye,' George said. He sipped a little more whiskey. 'Her mother did too.'

It now occurred to Lisa that _Mrs_ De Bowen must be dead. And Alex was all he had.

Brody returned with the tall man from the car.

'Ah Kimble, there you are,' George said, addressing the tall man. 'Bring him in, will you?'

Kimble pulled Jackson into the room, forcing him at gunpoint to sit in another wooden chair, similar to Lisa's, close to the fireplace, facing Lisa and George.

Lisa felt sick with fear and disappointment at the sight of him, hating that they'd got him too. But she refrained from speaking, from registering her alarm. Somehow, she had to keep a cool head.

Jackson cast a brief, cursory glance at Lisa, but otherwise seemed suitably composed, although he was pale and drawn, and there was a dried ooze of blood at the corner of his mouth. Clearly he had been involved in some kind of tussle.

George frowned deeply.

'Dear me Jackson. I credited you with better manners. Aren't you at least going to acknowledge the presence of a lady in the room?'

Jackson reluctantly looked at Lisa and nodded. Kimble nudged the barrel of his gun against Jackson's head, prompting him to do more.

'I'm ... I'm so sorry Lisa. Sorry this is happening,' he said quietly. His eyes, sad and defeated, lingered on her face for maybe a split second longer than was necessary.

Lisa could feel a sob clawing at her throat.

She looked down, determined not to reveal her emotions, anything this monstrous old man with his tanned features, silvery hair and plush wine-red cardigan – as if he were all set for a jovial night of Bridge rather than whatever vile _fun_ he had planned for them - could seize upon and enjoy.

'You can, of course, thank our dear mutual friend Mr Rippner for your being here at all, Miss Reisert,' George said. 'Turns out he really_ does_ have reason to be sorry.'

Jackson narrowed his eyes.

'Don't you recall Jackson? You were foolish enough to refer to Miss Reisert as _Lise_, directly in front of me at that art show where Lisa's friend made such an exhibition of herself?' George said.

Jackson had blanched. Lisa could see he was digging his nails deep into his palms. But he remained tight-lipped.

'Such a silly, silly error,' George said smiling fondly. 'Particularly seeing as she had been introduced to us as _Lisa_. I knew then that you were intimate in some way, and I determined to find out as much as I could about Miss Robinson's charming little friend from Miami.' He smiled an ingratiating, smarmy smile in Lisa's direction. His hand twitched, almost as though he was imagining stroking her bare arm, which he now stared at before lifting his eyes to her face. 'I have to protect my daughter's interests, you see.'

Lisa instantly looked away.

'Lisa's friend was only too ready to spill the beans, as they say … she was hardly in a condition to know what she was saying at all actually. But I soon knew enough, and I must say, it came as quite a surprise to me. … Dear, dear. I never expected you to extend your acquaintance with Miss Reisert beyond what was necessary. Remarkably _unprofessional _behavior Jackson.' George shook his head in admonishment.

'So you've known … all this time!' Jackson exclaimed, beginning to froth over with heated frustration. 'And you said nothing, did nothing!'

George laughed. 'I thought it best to wait until we were back in New York … I've been rather looking forward to this little interlude and I didn't want to miss it. As for _doing_ nothing … Far from it. Our dear friend Mr Kimble here has been quite feverish on my behalf … haven't you Kimble?'

Kimble nodded.

'All at great cost to himself I might add … you're not a natural art lover, are you Kimble?'

So they'd been tailed at The Met, Lisa thought angrily.

'You see Jackson. You've been getting very slack,' George said bluntly. 'But then … you are young, and susceptible. And as a man of course, I can't really blame you,' he continued, casting what Lisa realized could only be a termed a look of drooling lasciviousness in her direction. Then his face hardened. 'But as the father of your future bride, I simply can't tolerate this errant nonsense.'

'I couldn't care less what you or your daughter think of me,' Jackson sneered.

George laughed, but there was a darker, menacing note to his voice. 'But you _will_ care Jackson Rippner. When I've finished with you, you will care very much indeed.'

Jackson fixed his eyes, a cold, steely blue, on George's face. 'I imagine I'll be too _dead_ to care,' he said, his voice wavering slightly.

Lisa could feel her heart racing frantically inside her chest. She hadn't wanted to face that unpalatable truth. But it was crystal clear. The likelihood of either herself or Jackson escaping this situation alive was extremely low.

George took a long sip of his whiskey. 'I have no intention of killing you Jackson. Until recently, you've been a loyal and efficient employee. And you are one of the best-trained men in the business.' He smiled, a cold, reptilian smile. 'I don't want to lose you. You're far too valuable.'

Jackson shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Kimble pushed his gun even more firmly against his neck.

'And it would break my daughter's heart if something happened to you,' George said.

'But you've been trying to kill me for months!' Jackson said, exploding with rage. 'You … you sent me off to that fucking godforsaken hole in Africa, when it wasn't even my hit … .'

'You were protecting company interests,' George said in measured, tolerant tones.

Jackson shook his head and opened his mouth as if about to argue further, but decided instead to say nothing. Lisa saw that he was furiously digging his nails into his palms again.

'I simply wanted to toughen you up,' George said. 'Teach you a few little lessons. Embellish your life experience.'

'It doesn't need _embellishing_,' Jackson yelled, his face flushed red with fury.

'Oh but it does, Jackson, it does,' George said steadily.

'So … so I can be a better man for your blessed daughter, is that it?' Jackson said in a wheedling tone.

'Not entirely,' George mused. 'I've known you for many years. Followed your career, your personal development, with interest. And you forget I was close friends with your uncle.'

'Big fucking deal,' Jackson snarled angrily.

'I've invested a lot in you Jackson,' George continued, in gently paternal tones. 'I've defended you and protected you after that horrible little mess you made for yourself in Miami … which lost me a lot of good will I might add … and I genuinely admire your talents. Even when you're frittering them over such a worthless piece of skirt as our pretty little Miss Reisert here.'

Jackson thumped the armrest on his chair and looked like he was about to spring from his seat, but Kimble elbowed him in the face, forcing him back into the chair where he writhed in agony, clutching his nose and lips. Blood streaked across his cheeks, trickling down his mouth onto his chin.

Jackson coughed uncontrollably, spitting blood onto his hands, which he then smeared down his white shirt and pants.

George laughed. 'Dear me Jackson. What a mess you're making.'

Jackson looked again as though he was about to leap out of his chair, but Kimble was waiting. He punched him hard in the stomach, winding him. Jackson fell backwards, his face puce, eyes bulging.

Kimble then smashed a fist repeatedly against Jackson's temple, violently knocking his head against the wooden back of the chair. Fresh blood erupted and was now flowing down his face, from a gash which had opened up across his left eye-brow.

'Stop it!' Lisa cried, recoiling as if she too was feeling his pain. Hot tears flooded her cheeks.

'Don't worry my dear,' George said soothingly, reaching forwards to pat her hand. 'You won't have to watch him suffer _too_ much you know… Like I said. I'm not going to kill him.'

He smiled smugly.

'No, indeed. Instead _he_'s going to kill _you_.'


	12. Manhattan Jungle

**Author's Note:**

Did I say the last chapter took a turn for the 'darker'? Well. This chapter's darker still.

Thanks again for the reviews! Keep them coming – they really do motivate me to keep writing.

I'm flitting between London and Paris over the next couple of weeks, which might be a little bit tricky for me in terms of finding writing time, but I will do my very best to make sure you still get a weekly installment.

Slight spoiler ahead -

In terms of narrative structure, if this story was a play, I would see this chapter as fast pushing towards the close of Act Two, and the next chapter will usher in Act Three – the final act. This means, however, there's still a wee way to go, so for those seeking rapid closure … sorry!

Hope you enjoy Jackson and Lisa's sticky situation.

**CHAPTER TWELVE - Manhattan Jungle**

Lisa couldn't believe what George De Bowen was saying.

Jackson was going to _kill _her?

Why Jackson?

George frowned deeply. He heaved a heavy sigh, laced with sadness. 'The tragedy is, of course, Miss Reisert, that you are a mere innocent bystander in this sordid little business. It's always the way, isn't it?'

Jackson's face had darkened. He stared at George, his eyes blazing with defiance.

'You've fucking lost your mind,' he said. 'She's done nothing wrong.'

'No. But _you_ have,' George said nonchalantly. 'It's a shame that Miss Reisert won't survive your negligence, but there it is … you have to learn somehow Jackson. We've all had difficult learning experiences in life. You'll probably even thank me for it some day.'

Jackson was open-mouthed in astonishment.

'But you said she could live … that she was nothing to us, to the network. Completely discredited as a potential witness. You did say this George … you didn't want the fucking mess, remember? What's changed?'

'_You've_ changed,' George said coolly. 'She's become a distraction, you, we, can all live without.'

Lisa struggled to contain the sense of helpless anguish which was brewing up inside her, threatening to explode into a flood of hysterical tears, as George De Bowen so casually discussed the rationale for her demise.

In an effort to stay calm, Lisa tried to focus on Charley's painting, _Manhattan Jungle_, perched above the fireplace in front of her. Tried to submerge herself in the painting's swirling kaleidoscope of colors and images. To be anywhere but here, amidst this nightmare.

Jackson's harsh, irate voice intervened.

'If this is a belated punishment for the Charles Keefe fuck-up, then you should know George, that the A-Plan was virtually unworkable … In fact, by almost pulling it off … and we were close, real close … I very nearly wrought a fucking miracle,' Jackson spewed furiously.

'I notice you haven't dared to criticize Gerry to his face … as you well know, the A-Plan was mainly Montana's work. And _he'_s never let me down,' George said defensively. 'Unlike yourself.'

'Then why bring me on board in the first place, unless you were trying to set me up?' Jackson said suspiciously. 'You knew as well as I did, that the whole damn plot was a crock of shit.'

George shook his head wearily, his eyes glazing. But Lisa felt certain there was a glimmer of fear, of doubt maybe, lurking in his downward glance, as he fidgeted with his whiskey glass.

'I mean, it must have been a real fucking shambles,' Jackson growled. 'I don't even _do_ homeland. It's not my remit.'

Lisa couldn't help but listen with interest. What the hell was Jackson talking about? As far as she could tell, the plan to kill the Keefes had looked set to work very well indeed. A missile had managed to blow a huge chunk out of her hotel, striking the Keefe's suite at just the right time, and if it hadn't been for her own late intervention and Cynthia's plucky dash to warn them, the Keefes would now be dead.

'There were easier methods to accomplish what you wanted,' Jackson continued, in acid tones. 'Other ways and means,' he added cryptically.

'We have _our _ways and means, young man, as you well know. Tried and tested,' George said officiously. He took a long sip of his whiskey, before returning the glass to the side-table next to his armchair. 'And I don't need _you_ to tell me otherwise.'

Jackson sneered at his boss, with undisguised disdain.

Lisa noted Brody was looking increasingly uncomfortable. His cellphone was thrumming interminably in the pocket of his pants. He quickly grabbed it, scanning the Caller ID display, whilst still pointing a gun at Lisa's head.

He grunted, distracting George from his heated exchange with Jackson.

George instantly looked at Brody, a searching look on his face, and then he visibly relaxed, as if a subtle communication had passed between the two men.

Brody instantly passed his gun to George, and dashed out of the room.

Pre-empting the sudden wolfish look from Jackson as he latched onto the subtle change in dynamics, Kimble pinned Jackson back into his seat with a heavy clunk of his fist against Jackson's bruised face. Jackson winced in pain.

Moments later and Brody returned, holding something in his hand, which he presented to George with considerable pomp.

George erupted into giggles. 'Bravo Brody … here comes the entertainment!'

Lisa stared, wide-eyed in horror at what George was holding.

It was the tape …the tape of her and Jackson in Miami.

Jackson glowered, perplexed, at the tape. But then he didn't know what she knew, Lisa realized. That to get the tape, they had to get Charley first.

He merely glanced at Lisa in bewilderment.

Lisa's mind was in turmoil. She was struggling to breath. She had seen what Brody had done to Talbot. How cruel and senseless his death had been. Surely they wouldn't think twice of hurting, even killing Charley too? Most particularly as she knew so much about Jackson's true identity and his role in the Keefe plot.

'Well my dear,' George said to Lisa in soft, clucking tones. 'There's no fun killing you, is there now, unless we've all had a listen to _this_.'

'How … how did you get it?' Lisa cried, hot tears suddenly flooding her cheeks. 'What have you done to her?'

A shade of alarm scuttled across Jackson's face.

George chuckled. He passed the tape to Brody, with a nod. Brody momentarily disappeared again, returning with an old-fashioned boombox.

'Lisa. Did you give this to someone?' Jackson asked, in cool, steady tones, although his eyes were shot through with a mixture of pity and annoyance.

She managed to nod in agreement, even though looking at him directly, sharing that information, and seeing it reflected in his face, only served to increase her hysterical sobbing.

Why had she let Charley take the tape? How could she have been so thoughtless? So selfish? If anything had happened to her, it was her fault, and her fault alone.

Brody popped the tape into the boombox's tape deck.

'Hold on. How did you know about this?' Jackson demanded, forcing Brody to pause before pressing the play button.

George waved a staying hand to Brody.

'By chance,' George said dryly, glad to elaborate. 'Yet _another_ schoolboy error on your part, Jackson.'

Jackson knitted his brow in grim consternation, cocking his head as if to listen all the more closely.

George seemed almost gleefully eager to enlighten him further.

'Brody planted a recording device amongst Miss Reisert's baggage … the simplest little espionage operation imaginable. At first I was somewhat concerned with Brody's little act of ingenuity, I must say. And I even told him so, in the harshest possible terms, didn't I Brody?' George said, acknowledging Brody regretfully. 'I thought, how could something so basic, so menial, possibly slip past the famously efficient scrutinizing gaze of our dear Mr Rippner … and I feared you would find the device and know that we were onto you.'

Lisa couldn't help but feel a brief flicker of anger ignite inside her. Why _hadn't _Jackson thought about it? Come to that, why hadn't _she_?

Jackson's face was blank and still, seemingly devoid of emotion. But Lisa was sure the color had drained even further from his bloodied cheeks.

'Which is how we discovered that this tape even existed,' George said smugly. He now grinned at Lisa. 'Courtesy of our lovely Miss Reisert here, who shared a most interesting conversation, just yesterday morning, with our dear mutual friend Miss Robinson.'

'Have ... have you hurt her?' Lisa stammered, still hoping to extract at least an inkling of Charley's fate. 'Please Mr De Bowen. Please tell me. I beg you.'

George brushed her pleas aside with a dismissive wave of the hand.

'I have to know,' Lisa screeched. She could feel white-hot rage bubbling up inside of her. She glanced desperately at Jackson who was warning her with his eyes to keep a lid on her emotions as best she could.

She took a deep breath, and sucked in her lower lip.

George indicated to Brody to press play.

The tape started off with the unmistakable soft sighs and moans of two people making out. Lisa couldn't suppress a shiver which trembled through her entire body – not one of embarrassment, or shame, as had been typical in the past, but almost of joyous recognition. Something warm and undeniably pleasurable amidst this horror, despite the fraught and unnatural circumstances of its creation.

The tape rolled on. The heated argument between Jackson and Lisa ensued. But rather than relive her anger, she felt nothing but a glow of unmediated fondness for the two people so wrapped up in trying to hate the other. Almost as though they were strangers, or characters she once knew in a book or a film, whose history she had followed with kindly interest.

She dared to look at Jackson who was gazing at her, his eyes brimming with feeling, and she knew he felt the same. She felt her chest tighten with sadness, even while she tried to smile. He smiled in return, a twisted, poignant smile, his eyes never leaving her face.

It seemed remarkable that she had reviled that tape so much. But now, strangely, it was a window opening out onto a time of comparative innocence. At the time she had narrowly escaped from what could have been a fatal attack. But Jackson had rescued her.

Meaning she was comparatively safe. Free to continue with that luxury of living from one day to the next, oblivious to the fact that each day, each waking moment, was a countdown to her last.

More than anything in the world, she wanted to capture, to savor that feeling of being alive, possibly, it seemed, for the last time.

Jackson's final sneering retort sounded on the tape – 'You're fucked up enough as it is' - and then there was her sobbing, replaying in tandem with the hot tears freshly staining her cheeks, as she relived the moment over again.

'Stop it,' George hissed venomously, shocking her out of her reverie. She looked at him for the first time since the tape had begun.

His face had clouded. He took a sip of his drink, his hand shaking.

'Take the tape and destroy it,' he ordered Brody, who immediately ejected the tape, dashing it into the empty fireplace. He seized a small can of lighter fuel which was positioned on a shelf close by, and doused the tape, before lighting a match which he flung into the fireplace.

Lisa watched soberly as flames licked steadily at the tape, curling and bruising its edges, before engulfing it in a hot, orange glow, emitting a thin plume of dense black smoke which was drawn upwards. The smell of burning plastic was rancid, stinging Lisa's nostrils.

George De Bowen suddenly stood up, still wielding Brody's gun in his hand, and stealthily approached Lisa. She shrank back into her chair, fearing the worst.

Jackson automatically lunged forwards, but was immediately pinioned back into his chair by Brody, who sprang at him, kicking him in the chest. From behind his chair, Kimble pulled Jackson's hair, forcing his head back against the chair's tall backrest, while shoving the barrel of his gun, flush against Jackson's pale throat.

Lisa screamed, but was stunned into silence by George, striking her with the butt of his gun. The pain was excruciating. She could feel warm blood soaking her hair.

She retched.

'You dirty little whore!' George spat. 'You think yourself quite the Mata Hari don't you?'

'No, no,' she muttered in tremulous tones, unable to look at her tormentor. She could hear scuffling from Jackson's direction, and a groan.

'Look at me,' George said. He wrenched her head upwards with a sharp jab of his finger to her chin. Then he slapped her across the face. She yelped in fright, aware of a stinging sensation in her lip. She saw that George was wearing a signet ring which must have caught her painfully.

George suddenly burst out laughing.

'I've got an idea … you're going to like this one Brody,' he said, nodding to his associate.

'Seeing as Miss Reisert reckons herself to be such a _femme fatale_,' he continued in cutting tones. 'Why don't we ask her to give us a little floorshow?'

Lisa felt her pulse quicken in terror.

'Maybe she can convince us to prolong her life span for that little bit longer? After all, she seems to have worked wonders on young Jackson here, even though he is so soon to be united with my lovely daughter in connubial bliss.'

Brody plucked a long knife from a holster hanging off his belt, and set to cutting the twines tethering Lisa to her chair. She was relieved to find her limbs were free, but was still unable to move, because George was holding the cold, metal barrel of Brody's gun to her head.

Seeing the long thin blade in Brody's hand, Lisa instantly thought of poor Talbot. The thought seemed to trigger fresh panic within her. Her heart was galloping frantically inside her chest, so fast, she thought it might explode.

Brody levered her into a standing position, but she was hardly able to stop herself from collapsing back into the chair, as her legs had gone to jelly, and she was fighting a sudden desperate desire to urinate.

'Your lover can watch,' George said, a savage expression on his face, indicating to Kimble that he should adjust Jackson's viewing position.

Kimble tipped Jackson slightly forwards, so that he could now see the full horror of what was happening to Lisa. He struggled in Kimble's grasp, but Kimble simply pushed his gun deeper into Jackson's neck, so that he could hardly breathe. So that when he tried to speak, he made a strange gulping noise.

George now gestured to Brody, who grabbed one of Lisa's binders, using it to fix Jackson into place.

'Good,' George said with obvious satisfaction. He grinned menacingly at Brody.

'Would you like the pleasure?' he asked.

Brody's eyes lit up. He grabbed hold of Lisa, and slowly, deliberately, trailed his long, thin knife down her tight, red dress. She screwed her eyes shut in fearful anticipation, aware that her legs were shaking uncontrollably.

'Go on. Cut her,' George hissed.

She waited for a searing, deadly pain, but instead she heard a ripping sound, as Brody took hold of the hem of her dress, and using the knife, he slowly tore it upwards, the blade occasionally nicking her skin on its journey towards her neckline.

She dared to open her eyes, sickened at the sight of George De Bowen leering at her exposed body. She now realized exactly what he planned to do with her.

'Please don't,' she begged, her teeth chattering with fear and a sudden rush of cold goosebumps. She could sense a disturbance by the fireplace, and knew that Jackson must be reacting, but she couldn't bear to look at him. Not like this.

Brody roughly pulled her dress off her, forcing her to stand, shuddering, in her underwear and stockings.

'You see Jackson,' George grimaced, his eyes twinkling. 'You might find the idea of killing her a barbaric one _now_, but after we've finished with her, you'll _want _to kill her.'

George's face brightened, his eyes fixed on Lisa's chest.

She realized with a sinking feeling that he had spotted her scar.

He smirked. 'Looks like we won't be the first to play this little game with you, will we Miss Reisert?'

She pursed her lips tightly together, refusing to respond, acutely aware as he cast a lewd eye over her breasts, before venturing further down.

'But don't worry your pretty little head, my dear,' George said, lips pursed. '_I'm_ no rapist … although I can't speak for my associates here of course.'

He settled himself into his armchair, still pointing a gun directly at Lisa. He sighed in satisfaction.

'Can … can I speak to Jackson?' Lisa asked in a small voice. 'Alone.'

George frowned. 'Whatever for?'

'Please,' she gasped. 'Just one minute. Thirty seconds.'

George eyed her with suspicion. 'You know I can't allow that.'

He then seemed to pause for thought, and seemed to enjoy what had occurred to him, judging by the fiendish little giggle he emitted straight after.

'Yes, yes Miss Reisert. Why not? But not quite alone. Kimble will remain.'

He instantly leaped from his chair, with surprising alacrity for someone of his age, and summoned Brody to follow, handing him his gun in the process.

Kimble untied then released his hold on Jackson, and moved to the door, where he remained, gun in hand.

Unable to stand any longer, Lisa instantly fell to her knees, heaving sobs convulsing her body.

Jackson seemed to be caught off-guard. At first he merely watched Lisa, confounded by their momentary respite and confused by her response.

She looked at him, silently pleading him to come and comfort her, to shrug off the strange cold detachment which had infected his features.

'Jackson,' she murmured.

Slowly, almost uncertainly, he moved from his chair, casting a cursory glance at Kimble, and approached her. He crouched down beside her, seemingly hesitant, but then in what seemed to be a sudden rush of feeling, he grabbed her to him, clutching her tightly.

The warmth and comfort which suddenly enveloped her, allowed Lisa to give full rein to her emotions. She cried into Jackson's chest, savoring his smell, the feel of him, the closeness of another human being.

'What do you want to do?' he asked quietly.

Lisa braced herself. 'I … I want you to kill me,' she whispered.

Jackson held her even closer. 'I don't want to, you know that Lisa, don't you.'

'I know,' she said. 'But if you don't, they'll … well, you know what they'll do. And they're going to kill me anyway. So I'd rather it was _you_ who did it.'

She gazed up at _Manhattan Jungle_, high above the fireplace, a distorted, blurry mess of colors when viewed through her tears. A picture of a place which made no sense, that had lost all natural orientation, as wild and untamed as its title.

Lisa smiled at Charley's unwitting prescience.

The only solid, tangible substance in her world, at that moment, seemed to be the man before her.

She pressed her lips against his. They felt warm and yielding. Jackson quivered, encasing her in his arms. He kissed her in return, tenderly at first, but with increasing passion.

She pulled away, fighting a little for breath.

'Just think of it as finishing off the job,' she said firmly, maintaining eye contact.

Jackson sat very still, closely watching her.

'OK Lise … how do you want me to do it?'

'What would be quickest?' she asked, hardly believing she was talking so matter-of-factly about her own death.

He leaned forwards, resting his head against hers. 'They … they won't give me a gun. I'll try, but it won't happen.'

Lisa nodded mutely.

'So,' he took a deep breath. 'It'll be a knife.'

He pressed a hand against her breast, palpating the spot where her heart lay thumping manically beneath her skin, and as he did so, he encircled her tightly, so that he was now whispering in her ear.

'At the last moment … I'll stab whoever's nearest,' he urged, in low tones, ensuring that Kimble couldn't hear them. 'They'll likely shoot us … but at least it'll be fast.'

Lisa shook her head vehemently. 'There's no point your dying too,' she groaned.

'You really think they're _not_ going to kill me Lise?' he asked. 'It might not be today. Tonight. But it'll be soon.' Then, with a wry smile. 'George doesn't tolerate disobedience.'

There was a commotion behind them as George and Brody returned. Kimble stepped forwards, pulling Jackson away from Lisa.

They exchanged one long, soulful look.

Jackson turned to George. 'She wants me to kill her,' he said simply.

George sneered. 'And ruin all our fun? Bah. What a spoilsport.' He paused. 'I take it there _is_ a condition here, isn't there?'

Jackson nodded.

George grinned at Brody and Kimble. 'Thought so. Sorry boys. But I'm a man of honor you know.'

He settled himself comfortably into his armchair, retrieving his whiskey tumbler from the side-table. 'I thought you'd come round,' he said with complacent jocularity.

He faced Jackson, who was still standing in the center of the room.

'And to be honest Jackson, I'm going to get a great deal of pleasure out of watching you kill her,' he smirked, fixing his eye on Jackson's face as he spoke. 'You see. I know how much she means to you.'

Jackson visibly flinched but said nothing in return.

George took a long sip of his whiskey, smacking his lips in appreciation. He grinned at Lisa, who was trying to shield herself as best she could, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. She jutted out her jaw in a show of defiance against him, even though her stomach was churning with fear and a strange excitement.

'Have you a weapon of choice my dear?' George said obligingly.

Lisa refused to answer.

Jackson interjected instead. 'A gun would be most humane.'

'A gun?' George scoffed. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

He gestured to Brody, who brandished the long, slim-bladed knife he had used to cut Lisa's dress off. Jackson reached out his hand but Brody pulled the knife away, waiting for George to give him the nod.

George was about to do so, when a loud clanging alarm ripped through the highly charged silence.

Lisa flicked her eyes towards Jackson, whose eyes were instantly alight, flitting from person to person, judging their reactions to this new development.

George's face reddened. 'I thought I told you no interruptions!' he yelled at Brody.

The clanging persisted.

'Excuse me Sir,' Brody said. 'But I _did_ disable all comms, like you said. This is your _emergency_ line.'

George paled. 'My what?' he spluttered.

'This is your emergency line Sir,' Brody continued stolidly, although he was recoiling slightly from George's fierce stare.

'It's Alex,' Jackson explained, a small smile curling his lip.

The truth dawned.

'God damn,' George muttered angrily.

He turned to Jackson. 'Have you done something to her?' he snarled.

Jackson shrugged, wide-eyed with innocence.

'Well for god's sake answer,' George said furiously to Brody.

Brody placed the knife on the mantelpiece, a little too far from Jackson to grab hold of without getting a bullet in the head for his pains from the ever-vigilant Kimble, then scampered away, soon returning with a large portable phone.

'She wants to speak to Jackson,' Brody said. 'Says she knows he's here.'

He passed the phone towards George, his arm suspended in mid-air, waiting.

George was about to take the phone when Jackson snatched it, slamming it to his ear.

'Hey Alex!' he said. 'It's me.'

He immediately glared at Lisa, who on cue, started screaming as loud as she could, before Kimble lumbered forwards, clapping a hand over her mouth as fast as he possibly could. She tried to bite one of his fingers, which were large and misshapen, like flabby sausage rolls, but he spun her backwards into her chair with such painful force, that for a few brief, breath-sapping seconds, she wondered if he had cracked her vertebrae.

'I don't know Alex,' Jackson said coolly. 'What do _you_ think it sounded like?'

'Give the phone to me,' George urged, his face mottled with rage, fists clenched.

But Jackson danced backwards, towards Lisa, listening to Alex with a droll, exaggerated smile on his face. All the while Lisa was trying to make as much noise as possible, and Kimble was struggling to keep her still, despite his comparative bulk.

'Sure, I've been with your father all evening … he's entertaining … no, I haven't forgotten,' Jackson continued, grinning. 'Come on now Alex … there's no need to cry.'

George pointed furiously to the antechamber which led off the study and pushed Brody forwards, commanding he accompany Jackson.

George straightened his collar, and sat down again. He gulped back his whiskey.

'She can't hear you Miss Reisert,' he said, throwing her a cruel, sardonic smile. 'And one word out of line from her beloved fiancée and Brody will know what to do.'

Lisa could hear Jackson laughing at something Alex said, all the while making soft cooing sounds, as if comforting a hysterical child.

'Sure. Sure,' he said. 'Look I'll get it done. Straight away. Let me write it down.' She heard Jackson pause, and ask Brody in quiet tones if he could borrow a pen.

What was he doing? She wondered. How could he calmly write down instructions amidst all of _this_?

And then it struck her.

She smiled.

Moments later, there was a loud gun shot which seemed to explode inches from her face. Lisa gasped in fright, falling away from Kimble, who staggered backwards.

There was another thunderous report, and Kimble fell sideways onto the chair, splattering blood onto George who was frozen with fear in his armchair.

Lisa felt like crying with relief when she looked up and saw it was Jackson who was holding a gun … Brody's gun.

He quickly turned about heel and shot behind him, into the antechamber.

There was a dull thud as what Lisa imagined could only be Brody's body fell to the floor.

'Get Kimble's gun!' Jackson barked to Lisa. She instantly scrabbled forwards on her hands and knees to retrieve the bloodied gun from Kimble's grasp, afraid to look at his face and his glassy-eyed stare, as he slumped on the chair, lolling towards her.

She grabbed the gun, and with quivering hands, directed it at George De Bowen, who seemed to have shrunk into his armchair, suddenly looking wan and pale, despite his heavy tan.

Meanwhile, Jackson grabbed the long thin knife Brody had produced for Lisa's execution, and now pointed both Brody's firearm and the knife at De Bowen.

'Right George,' he said, panting heavily. 'I'm going to give you a choice.'

He looked at Lisa, a tiny smile flickering on his lips.

Lisa tried to smile back, but couldn't, caught between awe and horror at the sight of Jackson, his visage pale and bloodied, his eyes a cold, icy blue, reveling in the deadly mayhem he was wreaking.

He was in his element, she thought ruefully, trembling at how extraordinarily powerful he seemed at this moment. Yet despite this, despite her instinctual fear, she couldn't help but feel a mad rush of hot-blooded excitement, a heady sense of arousal which shocked her.

Suddenly the emergency phone shrilled, piercing the tension.

'That'll be Alex,' Jackson said smugly. 'Probably wondering why I put the phone down on her so abruptly.'

The phone continued to ring, insistently.

George writhed uncomfortably, screwing his hands together tightly.

'Can I speak to her?' he said in hoarse tones.

'No,' Jackson said.

'We can work this out … you, me, Alex,' George pleaded, in raised tones, striving to be heard over the phone's clamoring din.

Jackson vehemently shook his head.

The phone finally rang off.

Tense silence ensued.

'I don't trust you,' Jackson said. 'You've set me up over and over. You wanted me dead … I don't care what you say.'

'It wasn't like that Jackson. There's … there's things you don't understand, that I can't tell you.'

Jackson laughed. 'Shut up old man,' he sneered.

He turned to Lisa.

'Lisa,' he said softly. 'Why don't you step outside?'

Lisa glanced at George De Bowen; surprisingly shriveled and sad-looking, a far cry from the jeering manic goblin she had encountered in this same room just a short time ago. She felt as though she had lived and died multiple times since being bundled by his henchmen into that hard-back chair, stripped, humiliated, and threatened with certain death at the hands of the man she both feared and desired more than anything in this world.

She moved towards the door, pausing briefly to glance into the ante-chamber.

Brody's body was sprawled heavily on the ground, at a sidewards angle so that she could not see his face. She could see the outline of a pen, jutting from his throat, half-shielded by his upright shoulder.

Jackson impulsively pulled her towards him, using his knife-bearing arm, into a close embrace. Forcing George to look at her. To acknowledge that _she_ was still alive, and _he_ was soon to die.

Jackson kept his gun firmly trained on George.

There was no escape.

'Wait for me in the lobby,' he said to Lisa, brushing his lips against her ear. 'And don't touch anything, whatever you do.'

He released her.

'Don't let him hurt my Alex,' George De Bowen begged, his hand outstretched towards Lisa. She jumped back in fright.

'Promise me,' George said, his eyes watery with emotion.

Lisa glanced at Jackson, then at George.

'I promise,' she said.

She left the room, closing the door tightly behind her.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Beyond George De Bowen's private chamber, the rest of the apartment was still and silent. She was surprised that there was little to no sound emanating from the study. Perhaps it was soundproofed in some way?

Lisa slumped against a heavy oak bureau in the lobby, her mind reeling with a mix of emotions.

On the one hand she was trembling with exhilaration – glad that she was still alive.

But undercutting this was a nagging fear, a sickening dread, that Charley probably wasn't.

She could sense a hot pool of anxiety gnawing away, deep inside her. She wanted to scream hysterically, at the top of her voice, but for some reason, she felt numbed too.

She gasped, momentarily paralyzed by the muffled sound of three gunshots emanating from the study.

With clear cold logic she realized that Jackson had just killed George De Bowen.

She wondered if it had been face to face. George in the armchair. Jackson, his cold eyes burning with cruel hatred, standing before him.

Or had Jackson forced George to kneel on the floor, head bowed, and shot him in the manner of a formal execution?

Even though she hated George De Bowen, more than she had imagined it was possible to hate a fellow human being, until the events of tonight … she didn't revel in his death. She didn't enjoy the feeling of queasy revulsion which swept through her.

She closed her eyes tightly, held her breath, and for one brief moment, fervently wished she could be at home, in Miami, at her Dad's house. Listening to him pottering to and fro, mumbling and moaning about silly everyday stuff, which paled into insignificance when compared to the true trials of life and death.

But somehow, this was the stuff of living. What she feared she had lost forever.

She suddenly missed the dull, monotonies of her life, with what felt like a visceral ache in her chest. Perhaps because she realized that, after tonight, her life might truly never be the same again.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It was some time before Jackson emerged from the study, gun in one hand, knife in the other, wiping blood-streaked sweat from his face. He'd been out of sight for a little too long, Lisa thought. She had just started to panic that somehow George had overcome Jackson, and shot _him_ instead.

Seeing him, Lisa could hardly believe the surge of relief which swept through her – relief so powerful it was as though her limbs had dissolved, and despite her best efforts, she was unable to stand up.

She hadn't recognized how terrified she really was, until that moment.

Jackson's face was clenched tight, teeth gritted. But he seemed to melt a little once he spotted her, slouched, helpless on the floor.

He hastened over, carefully placing his weapons on the bureau behind her, before enfolding her tightly in his arms, and pulling her into a standing position.

'That was a fucking close one,' he breathed.

Lisa could feel he was trembling with the excitement of it all. It hadn't occurred to her that someone so accustomed to bloodshed might still be adrenalized by the kill. She remembered the ferocious energy she had felt burning off him, when he had struck her in Room 3113 at the Lux Atlantic, and she had been sure he had considered killing her in that instant.

'We have to go check on Charley,' she said.

'That's not the only reason we have to get out of here,' Jackson smirked. 'I've just killed one of the most important men in America.'

But neither seemed able to move. Lisa wrapped her arms around Jackson's neck, holding on to him. He pulled her closer, his hands gripping her waist.

She stared directly into his eyes, and tentatively kissed him, tasting the salty, metallic tang of blood, on both their mouths. He slid one arm around her, his hand caressing the smooth skin at the small of her back, while he plunged his other hand into her hair, forcing her forwards into a deeper kiss, which startled her in its intensity.

He groaned, grinding his hips rhythmically against her, pushing her back into the bureau, which in turn jolted against the wall. She was surprised by his ardor, his obvious arousal, even though she too was swiftly succumbing to a heated excitement, a tightening in her belly, which slightly shamed her in view of the circumstances.

She frantically tried to rationalize her response as a potent combination of adrenalin and sexual desire – probably some kind of animalistic instinct for survival, a triumphant bravura at cheating death.

But it wasn't right. Not here. Not like this.

She pulled her face back, and then roughly pushed Jackson's face away too.

A flash of anger, which she found a little disturbing, spasmed his features. For one chilling moment, she thought he might bare his teeth and strike her.

'Jackson … this is sick,' she panted, crossing both her arms, to act as a buffer between their bodies, even though he was now holding her by the hips and was still pressed hard against her.

'There's … there's three bodies in there,' she said, gesturing to the room behind them.

Jackson gazed downwards, his eyes darting frantically beneath his long lashes. 'I know … I know. It's just … .' He looked at her, startling her with the clear blue intensity of his eyes. 'It's just, I'm so fucking glad to be alive Lise … to be able to hold you like this. In fact … I've never felt so fucking alive in all my life.'

Lisa took a deep breath. She leaned forwards and gently kissed him on the lips.

'Well, let's keep it that way, shall we?' she said, resting her warm cheek against his. Even as she spoke she yearned, yet again, to slide her mouth over his.

'Let's get moving,' she sighed.

Lisa slipped out of his grasp. 'I need something to wear,' she said, in reference to her under-dressed state.

'You look fine as you are,' he said, with what approximated in the circumstances to a cheeky grin.

She tingled with unbidden excitement, sensing his eyes as they roved greedily over her body. She tried to sidestep his gaze and was about to peruse a coat stand which was in a corner by the door, but Jackson clawed her back.

'Don't touch anything,' he warned. 'Forensics will be combing the joint.'

Sticking out from the cluster of coats was an over-sized brown fur cloak. Jackson lightly tugged at this, loosening it from the stand, without having to touch any other garments in the process.

Lisa wrinkled her nose in disgust. 'I can't wear that.'

'You've no choice,' Jackson said.

Reluctantly, Lisa donned it over her underwear and gawped at herself in a full-length mirror hanging close by, thinking she looked like a regular at the Playboy mansion.

Jackson was busy tucking Brody's gun into his belt. He looked up, a concerned expression on his face, noting that the security camera, which was positioned by the front entrance, was currently filming Lisa as she stared at herself in the mirror.

'We need to get rid of this footage,' he murmured contemplatively, chewing his bottom lip.

He swept out of the foyer, through a large double door.

Lisa looked up at the offending camera, and then followed.

'Remember. Don't touch anything,' he said.

They wandered through a vast, palatial salon, with pillars and plush white furnishings, into a corridor which seemed to stretch for some distance.

'How big is this place?' Lisa asked, incredulous.

There were rooms leading off the corridor, mostly with their doors closed, or ajar, leading into dense darkness.

Jackson finally halted, nudging open a door with his elbow. The door led into a narrow darkened room, festooned with long blocks of twinkling lights. To Lisa's unschooled eye, the place resembled the flight deck of an airliner, except there was also a bank of TV screens.

Jackson gingerly tugged open a drawer and surveyed its contents. He slammed it shut, then opened a small cupboard, positioned under a desk. He pulled out a cloth from the cupboard and wiped down where he had touched with his bare hands.

He had also found a pair of black gloves which he tried on for size.

'A bit too big,' he grimaced. 'Probably Kimble's. But they'll do.'

'Surely the police would expect to find your prints here anyway?' Lisa asked, leaning against the doorway before she remembered she shouldn't touch anything. She stepped away guiltily.

'Sure, they would,' he said. 'But not in here. Not trying to dismantle the security system at any rate.'

Jackson frowned in concentration, immersed in trying to negotiate his way through a complicated computer system wearing gloves which were too large for his hands.

'Fuck,' he muttered irritably. He turned to Lisa, a darkly serious expression on his face.

'You know what Lise. Maybe you should go on ahead. Get clear.'

'You're kidding,' she said, breathlessly, feeling as though her heart had missed a beat.

'I don't want anyone to find you here. And I don't know how long this is going to take,' Jackson persisted. 'I'm pretty fucked anyway … Alex knows I was here, with her father, and I'll be suspect _numero uno_ when they can't find me for questioning.'

Lisa didn't like the thought that Jackson was suddenly dismissing her. Even if it was for her own safety.

And she desperately didn't want to be alone.

'The thing is Lisa, I've killed three men tonight, while you are completely innocent,' he said.

He turned his back to her to continue his work on the computer, clicking through a series of screens using the mouse.

'It doesn't feel that way,' Lisa moaned. 'If something's happened to Charley, it'll all be my fault.'

'Well, that was a real dumb ass thing to do … giving _her_ the tape,' Jackson muttered. 'But don't jump to conclusions. She's probably tucked up in her bed, safe and sound.'

'I hope so. She might have company too. One of the guys we were out with tonight was getting kind of cozy with her.'

Jackson turned round, arms folded, his face illuminated by the myriad lights and screens on the 'flight-deck' behind him and to his side.

'You were out with guys from the Keefe campaign, right?'

Lisa nodded. 'One of them had a box at the opera. Charley left with him.'

'There you go. She's probably in safe hands.'

'Not _so_ safe,' Lisa said, barely able to contain her feelings. 'The guy who was walking back to the hotel with me … when they, when they came for me … they killed him. Brody killed him.'

Jackson stared at her, clearly shocked and perturbed to hear this.

A streak of bloody sweat was rolling down his cheek. He spotted a box of tissues on the desk. He pulled a handful out and mopped away some of the blood he had shed earlier that evening, thanks to Kimble's beating, although there were still some clots of congealed blood in his hairline.

'And to think Jackson,' Lisa said, scornfully, 'you once told me, Brody wasn't a mindless thug. That you guys didn't kill people for the sake of it.'

Jackson stuffed the bloodied tissues into his pocket. 'It doesn't make sense,' he murmured. 'Mindless killing is _not_ our style. Believe me.'

'Tell that to Talbot's wife and kids,' Lisa said bitterly.

'And you say this guy works for the Keefe campaign?' Jackson asked. 'Because they'd have known that, if, as seems likely, you were being tailed.'

'Maybe they wanted to frame me for his murder?' Lisa asked, with a mocking laugh that half-choked her. 'After all, I was the last person to see him alive. I haven't reported his death to the police. And don't forget, there's some guys out there who actually believe _I_ had a hand in the attempted assassination of Keefe.'

She had hoped to see Jackson smile ironically in return. Dismiss her fears as foolish fancy, but instead he continued to chew his lip with increasing anxiety.

And … and,' she continued with forced bravado. 'Guess what? I was on my way to _see_ Keefe when I was abducted. And then I go AWOL.' She sighed. 'I should have listened to you. Just quit New York while I had the chance.'

There was an icy chill to Jackson's penetrating blue eyes which was beginning to scare Lisa, as he listened intently to what she was saying, and was clearly pondering the ramifications.

'There's something we're missing here,' he said softly. 'This Talbot. What exactly did he do?'

'He was Keefe's campaign adviser,' Lisa said, finding that she too was beginning to chew her lip, mirroring Jackson.

'This will be big news,' Jackson said, 'There'll be a major investigation.'

'Nothing compared to De Bowen,' Lisa added.

'Even so. Why did Brody risk it? I mean, I know the guy's a fucking dildo, but we're _not _thugs. Really Lisa. We're meant to be a lot smarter than that.'

Jackson's eyes flicked to a clock hanging on the wall. He instantly resumed his attentions to the computer.

'Everything has a reason. A purpose,' he said.

'Well. De Bowen said _he_ … Talbot … was in the way. Kind of a flimsy reason if you ask me,' Lisa said.

Jackson made no response. He was now preoccupied with deleting files on the computer screen.

'Cool,' Jackson finally said. 'That's tonight wiped. And the backups should be …,' he crouched down, and tried to prise open a steel cupboard under the desk. But the door was locked. 'Well. They _should_ be in here.'

He rummaged through a drawer.

'There's no fucking key,' he complained.

Instead, Jackson pulled out a screwdriver and set to unscrewing the front panel of the cupboard.

'So … is this the central HQ for organizing De Bowen's global killing sprees?' Lisa asked curiously.

Jackson laughed, a low, hollow laugh. 'Hardly.'

He glanced at her. 'He's not quite the sponsor of manic murderous rampages you imagine him to be Lisa.'

'Well, you could have fooled me.'

Jackson paused, still holding the screwdriver.

'George isn't … he _wasn't _some kind of evil criminal mastermind. He was a cog in a wheel. Nothing more. Nothing less.' He thought a moment, then added. 'Sure, he was also a heartless psychopath and I'm glad he's dead. But there's other George De Bowens out there, other links in the chain, or the _network, _as we call it at De Bowens.'

'Right,' Lisa said slowly, deliberately. 'That sounds kind of creepy.'

Jackson laughed mirthlessly. 'It is.'

He brusquely returned to his work under the desk with increased vigor.

'What does this _network_ do?' Lisa asked, desperately trying to inject a confident, fearless note into her voice.

'They fix things.'

'Fix what?'

Jackson shrugged. 'Everything … to their liking.'

'You mean money markets,' Lisa said, thinking of the primary function of both De Bowens and Beauchamps. 'It always comes down to money.'

'I used to think that,' Jackson said. 'But now I think it's sheer bloody-mindedness.'

'And yet you work for these people? For George De Bowen? How can you do that?' Lisa asked.

Jackson pondered a moment.

'Because I'm greedy and soulless,' he said. 'And … until recently, George had always treated me with respect.'

Jackson ducked even further under the table, and pulled the screws loose from the cupboard door. He then gradually slid the heavy metal cover free.

'You know Lise, I meant it you know, when I said you _can_ walk away from all of this if you really want to,' he said, panting a little from the exertion of working at such an awkward angle. 'Because, frankly, your greatest danger at this moment in time, is probably knowing _me_.'

She could feel his eyes on her, peering at her from the shadows cast by the desk above him.

'If you want to, you can go to the police, go to Keefe even … say you and Talbot were attacked. You panicked and ran. And ask for police protection.'

He began pulling out spools of tape. 'And once I've cleared this footage out of here, and disposed of it, there's no _proof _you were here tonight at all.'

Jackson stood up, rolling the film into a tight ball, which he crushed between his gloved hands. He stared at her.

'However. Having said that. Somebody out there knows that there was a tape, lodged with your friend Charley, and they know for certain that the tape ended up here. Tonight,' Jackson said.

He stuffed the film into his pocket, which was already bulging with spare tissues.

Lisa didn't like the sound of that. Even though it was clearly true.

'So you're saying I'm as fucked as you,' she said glibly.

'Not necessarily. We just don't have any hard information to work with,' Jackson said. 'We don't know how much that person knew about that tape. Or what they knew, if anything, about you. But what we _do_ know, is sticking around with _me_ is probably not going to help you, one little bit.'

Jackson briskly exited the room, leading Lisa after him by the hand.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Back in the lobby, there was a deathly silence.

Lisa couldn't help flicking her eyes towards the study, aware of the three corpses inside.

Jackson disappeared momentarily, returning with a large plastic pail filled with a bottle of clear liquid, rags and fresh paper towels.

'I forgot something.' He gestured towards the study.

'Jackson,' Lisa called, in a quavering voice. 'I don't want to hold you back. Would you rather we just went our separate ways?'

Jackson sighed. 'Would you hate me Lisa, if I said I don't actually know? I can't decide what's safer for you.'

He downed the pail and stepped forwards, placing one hand on her shoulder, while the other tenderly stroked her face.

'Our main priority is to get out of here, as fast as we can, and then … well, I've got a close contact, a friend, who might be able to find out more for us. Help us out.'

Reluctantly he pulled away from her. 'Look, give me a few minutes.' He briefly looked her up and down. 'What did you do with Kimble's shooter?' he asked.

Lisa thought a moment, and then pointed to the floor, under the bureau. Jackson picked it up, applying the safety latch.

'You're going to be needing this,' he said in clinical tones. 'Whatever happens.'

He handed the gun to Lisa, who took hold of it, with trembling fingers. She fearfully turned it over and over in her hands.

Jackson kissed her gently on the forehead. 'If anyone comes to the door, come and get me. OK?'

'Can I help you?' she asked.

Jackson pulled a face, disbelieving. 'You really want to?'

Lisa nodded vehemently. 'We can get out quicker if I do.'

She slipped her hand into his, and he led her back into the study.


	13. With Friends Like These

**Author's Note:**

WARNING: There is a scene in this chapter of a 'sensual' nature, which I found very difficult to write, if truth be told. This is because my instinct is probably more towards the 'graphic' - not because I'm a gratuitous pornographer, far from it, but more because, when it comes to writing, I am a bit of a detailist by style.

But as a novice fan fiction writer, I'm not really certain how the ratings system works, despite having read through a number of other 'T'-rated fan fictions on this site, all widely varying in their treatment of sexuality.

So in this case, something that is probably straining to be an 'M' has been coerced (I think/hope) into a 'T'.

However, for the record, I will describe this as a chapter as one which some might consider M-rated.

Thanks again for the wonderful reviews for Chapter 12. I found it tough to write at times - probably for the same reasons mentioned above, as I had to consciously tone down and even remove a great deal of the violence, most particularly the more sensate descriptions, which often intrigue me most.

I will try my best to get Chapter 14 out to you as soon as possible, but as with this week, I am very much on the move.

I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, to be honest - but I'm sitting in a hotel lobby in Paris, and it's 5.20am, and I'm too tired to re-draft, but I am very busy for the next few days, so wouldn't have any time for improvements. I hope this entertains anyway!

And finally: **Disclaimer** – I own nothing, and I _owned_ nothing in Chapter 12 too, which I forgot to 'disclaim.'

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN - With Friends Like These**

It was chilly outside.

Lisa was even glad of the voluminous fur cloak she was wearing, and even gladder still when Jackson placed his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close as they walked. She, in turn, slunk an arm around his waist, savoring the warmth of his body beside her.

Just minutes later and they were in the capacious foyer of Jackson's apartment block which was close to De Bowen's deluxe penthouse on Fifth Avenue.

Jackson was engaged in earnest conversation with the night watchman.

The two men exchanged a joke, and Jackson headed over to Lisa, who was patiently waiting by the elevator, perspiring profusely – a mixture of panic-stricken fear in response to the horrific events she had been subjected to, and unutterable exhaustion.

Jackson summoned the elevator.

'Ben's going to keep an eye out for us,' Jackson said quietly. 'Warn us in case anyone comes snooping.'

Lisa regarded Ben a little dubiously. He was a small, wiry guy with wizened features and a shock of white hair, immaculately turned out in a smart green uniform. But he looked to be far too old to be of much real use to them, if anyone even halfway as sinister as what they had had to deal with that evening, decided to pay a call.

'Believe me Lise. Ben's a Vietnam vet and wily as a fox,' Jackson said with a grin. 'The best lookout I know.'

Lisa was amazed that Jackson was able to smile at all, considering the circumstances.

XXXXXXXXXX

It seemed another lifetime since they were last in this elevator heading up to Jackson's apartment, Lisa thought ruefully. Yet less than thirty-six hours had lapsed.

Lisa vividly recalled how Jackson had pushed her against the elevator wall, devouring her with his lips.

She closed her eyes, relishing the memory.

And yet now, Jackson was lost in thought, his eyes darkened with planning and plotting – wholly enthralled in the business of survival.

With so much to fear already, the steep and precarious landing, leading to his apartment, was somehow less terrifying than before. Sure, she still had beads of sweat breaking out across her forehead and a ferocious beating of her heart as they circled the landing to his door, despite Jackson's tight grip on her arm.

But this time, her predominating thought, was the fact that the elevator was the only means of arrival and departure.

They were effectively cornered.

'Is it safe to come here?' she asked, unable to quell the trembling quaver in her voice.

Jackson was unlocking the door, a concentrated frown on his face.

'Probably not,' he murmured. 'But I need to get some stuff and make a call or two. So it'll have to do for now.'

Once inside, Jackson flicked on a lamp to their right, which illuminated a wide, circular hallway with black and white checkered tiling, doorways peeling off in every direction.

'This is not what I expected,' Lisa said.

Jackson didn't respond. He was far too preoccupied with a series of buttons and screens set behind a cast iron door, built into the wall behind the door. Lisa surmised that this was a security system of some sort.

She wandered into a darkened room, and was about to flick on the main light, when Jackson grabbed her arm from behind. He encircled her, pulling her round to face him.

'Not a good idea,' he whispered, his voice a little husky. 'Always let me go first.'

Pressed this close against him, Lisa couldn't suppress the tight tingling which flooded her body, an acute physical awareness of his proximity.

She sighed, her head falling onto his shoulder. She could feel his body had tensed, his heart thumping loudly in the darkness, against her own.

He brushed his lips, warm and soft, against her cheek.

She could feel his breath, hot on her face, and feared he was about to kiss her.

A momentary lick of panic spurred her into breaking free from his grasp.

_If they started, they wouldn't stop. _

She stumbled backwards in the darkness, finally arriving at a wall on the other side of the room to the door.

Jackson hadn't moved. 'I'd better check out the rest of the apartment,' he said, a little gruffly.

He reached out somewhere to his left, and switched on a lamp, which emitted a soft, warm glow, then hastened away, leaving her alone.

Lisa fell against the wall, glad of the cool plaster against her feverish forehead. Her whole body was thrumming. And a little too warm from the fur cloak.

How could this be happening to her, she wondered. Less than a month ago, the thought, the fear of ever seeing Jackson Rippner again, had been all-consuming. Petrifying.

And yet here she was, in his apartment, saved by him yet again, and deeply regretting how she had pulled away when he had looked set to kiss her, as now she could feel his momentary absence from her as an almost tangible void, a coldness, that she wanted him to swiftly banish.

She took a deep breath, studying the room she had wandered into, its contents.

It was tastefully furnished. Clean, contemporary lines. An old brown leather chair that she fancied had some history to it; something she found surprising. She'd never really thought of Jackson as a man with a past, a family, a world of experience.

Most interesting was the bank of books, a tower of shelves, extending from the floor to the ceiling.

He certainly had wide-ranging tastes, if all these books were actually his. And yes. He hadn't lied. He really did like French philosophy, she thought with a fond smile, browsing a series of names she had never heard of: Deleuze, Barthes, Virilio, Badieu. Many others. Perhaps not all French she realized.

Stretched along the length of an entire wall was an impressive piece of Bang and Olufsen kit, and above it, affixed to the wall, were racks of CDs. Again, he seemed to have very catholic tastes. There was a substantial amount of classical, she noted, including _Rigoletto_, which she plucked from the rack. But there was also an extensive range of pop and rock, especially indie music, and even some jazz, although this was generally more old-fashioned - Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald. Certainly not the anonymous-sounding smooth jazz she had often associated with him, following his description of the assassin who had waited to kill her Dad in Miami, during that fateful night of the Red Eye.

The Red Eye … . It seemed so very far away. Such a long time ago.

'Looking for something?' Jackson asked.

His voice, so close behind her, startled her.

'Nothing in particular,' she breathed. She grinned. 'I expected more _smooth jazz_.'

Jackson pulled a face. 'Really? I'm allergic to that bland crap.'

He saw she had _Rigoletto_ in her hand. 'Is this what you went to see?'

She nodded. He took it from her, turning it over in his hands, a thoughtful expression on her face.

'It can come with us,' he said. He slipped his hand into hers. 'You probably need to freshen up. We've got to get out of here.'

'I need to speak with Charley.'

'We'll call her on our way out.'

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lisa had never been so relieved to shower.

The bloody wound George De Bowen had inflicted on her earlier, by smashing the butt of his gun into her scalp, had congealed into a purplish jellied mess, and until she removed her underwear, she hadn't realized how hot and sweaty she had gotten either.

She wondered what she was going to wear when they left the apartment. The idea of wearing the same clothes and the stifling fur cloak was just unbearable.

The shower was wide and accommodating; a walk-in, decorated with glistening blue mosaic tiles.

Lisa crouched on the floor, the hot water soothing her. The dried blood in her hair sloshed down her body, dissipating on the floor, before swirling down the plughole.

Fortunately, the cut De Bowen had inflicted on her, was pretty shallow, and didn't need further medical attention.

Her mind drifted inexorably back to the gory events in George De Bowen's study.

She could hardly believe that she was still alive.

And stranger still, that it had inadvertently been Alex's intervention which had saved them.

For one brief moment she had felt sorry for George De Bowen. The teary desperation of his final wish. A father's urge for reassurance that despite his own multiple, heinous sins, the one person he loved, his child, would remain unharmed.

But when she recalled his callous cruelty, his willingness to inflict the very worst mental torture, her blood ran cold. 

She shivered, losing herself in the loud drumming of the water which hammered her body. She huddled closer to the wall, wrapping her arms around herself, head rested on her knees, eyes closed, trying to block out the tumult of sickening thoughts which crowded her head.

A voice penetrated her reverie.

At first she didn't recognize it.

She peered blearily through the cascade of water enveloping her, and realized that she must have fallen asleep.

'Lisa!' came Jackson's voice.

Through the walk-in shower's opaque glass tile wall, Lisa could vaguely make out his lean, dark form, leaning against the bathroom door.

She wondered how much he could see of _her._ And realized that she was probably little more than a flesh-colored blur.

'Sorry … I think I was asleep,' she said.

'Come on. We have to get going,' he urged.

She waited for him to move. Although she was half-wanting him to stay.

She closed her eyes, and buried her face in her hands.

XXXXXXXXXX

'What am I going to do about clothes?' Lisa asked. Her melancholic mood from the shower had stayed with her. Added to which, she was fast succumbing to an unpleasantly draining weariness.

She had a huge white towel wrapped around her, and was dripping water all over the hallway floor.

Jackson seemed faintly amused at her plight. He beckoned her into the main bedroom, which was illuminated by a single dimly lit lamp.

The room was spacious, yet somehow intimate too, in being dominated by a vast white bed.

There was a huge window, currently obscured by a blue blind.

Jackson opened the door to a built-in wardrobe, revealing an array of woman's clothing.

Lisa was momentarily confused, and then realized, with a heavy heart, that this had to be Alex's wardrobe.

But of course. As his fiancée, she probably stayed over on a regular basis.

And they were darned lucky that tonight was not one of those nights.

'Take what you want,' Jackson said. He seemed unwilling to look her in the eye and was soon heading out of the door.

He paused at the threshold.

'I've already packed … grab a few extra clothes, just in case we have to stick together for some time … but not too many,' he said, in flat, lifeless tones.

Lisa's despondence grew. _I'm a nuisance_, she thought miserably. _He wants rid of me_. He was only prepared, it seemed, to keep her on board, to 'stick' with her, if her life was truly in imminent danger.

And now that De Bowen was dead, that threat might well have been vanquished.

Which was a good thing. Of course it was.

But somehow she didn't want to be left alone at this particular juncture. She didn't want to say goodbye.

'Have you spoken to your friend?' she asked.

'Not yet,' Jackson said.

He smiled reassuringly and disappeared from view.

It was wrong to dally, she knew that. But Lisa couldn't help herself. She was dog-tired, and she had zero desire to browse Alex's wardrobe.

She sank onto the bed, collapsing into a huge fluffy comforter, and wished for oblivion.

She must have lain in the same spot for longer than she thought, because Jackson soon returned. He too had showered, and was also wearing a towel, tied around his middle. His torso was gleaming wet and his hair was damp and had been roughly toweled into boyishly untidy tufts.

He didn't even glance at the bed, opening a wardrobe instead.

He pulled out some clothes – a couple of suits, shirts, jeans and a jumper.

Lisa wondered if she should say something, but then Jackson suddenly turned around, catching her unawares, spiraling her into embarrassed confusion.

She saw that there was a mirror hanging on the inside door of the wardrobe.

'I thought you were done,' he said, his eyes cold and piercing.

'I was tired.'

Jackson sighed, pushing damp hair out of his eyes. 'There's no time to be tired,' he said bluntly.

He opened Alex's wardrobe.

"Did you find anything suitable?' he asked, thumbing through the copious garments on display, pulling out the occasional skirt, dress or top.

'Pants are no good,' he muttered. 'She's got a good few inches on you.'

Lisa could feel tears welling, and had to stifle a sudden, unbidden sob into the mound of soft white pillows on the bed.

'Lisa?' he asked. There was a curt note to his voice which pained her. 'Lisa?'

Why was he suddenly being so cold? So uncaring?

She had become nothing but a burden to him.

Didn't he care that her world was falling apart? That she was tired and scared. Worried about her future. Worried about her life. Worried for him.

Lisa couldn't stop the tears from flowing, her shoulders heaving with the effort. She buried her face deeper into the bed, half-wishing the bedclothes would swallow her whole.

There was a long silence, and then, the soft, kneading pressure of someone else joining her on the bed. Jackson padded softly towards her, then lay beside her, his lean form stretched against the entire length of her body.

She kept her back to him, ensuring he only had a view of her hair.

'Lisa?' he said, in warmer tones.

His hand landed on her shoulder. It felt hot; an unnerving presence.

He eased her onto her back.

She covered her tear-stained face with her hands.

Gently, he moved her hands away too, and tilted her head towards his own.

She was gasping for breath, as sob after sob continued to judder through her.

She feared looking at him. Being greeted by a hard, blank stare – one she had come to know well as his unflinching face of imperturbable businesslike efficiency.

But instead, his tousled damp hair had fallen, yet again, into disarray over his forehead, and his eyes were soft, a dense, penetrating blue.

Relieved to see that he was not as furious as she had feared, Lisa surged forwards, burrowing close to him, suddenly desperate for the comfort of physical intimacy.

'No … no Lisa,' he warned, trying to force her away from him. 'Please. Don't.'

But Lisa simply couldn't contain the bottled-up emotions swelling inside her chest.

She held him tight, kissing him on the throat, nuzzling him, wallowing in his warmth.

'Lisa. That's really not a good idea,' he said, a little breathlessly.

She instinctively entwined her arms around his neck, smoothly stroking the nape of his neck, relishing his warm smoothness, and the maddening feel of his bare skin against hers.

It was only then that she noticed, that her towel had slipped, while she nestled against him. And that his chest was now next to her naked breasts.

She slowly slid her skin against his, hardly daring to breath. Staring deep into his eyes.

'Oh fuck,' Jackson moaned, screwing his eyes tightly shut, almost as though, by doing this, he might block out the exquisite sensations which were assailing him.

'We can't do this Lisa,' he begged. 'Not now. We have to get out of here. You know that, don't you?'

Yet despite his protests, Lisa could feel that he was highly aroused. And she could feel his eyes, hot and sensual, burning into her. Lingering over her half-naked body, stretched out before him.

She knew he was right. That this was the wrong time. The wrong place even.

But she couldn't help what she was feeling. Which at this particular moment was an urgent desire to kiss him.

She pressed herself tightly against him, thrusting her fingers into his hair, coaxing his mouth to meet hers.

'Jesus,' Jackson said softly, under his breath, before kissing her with mind-spinning ferocity. Deeply. Urgently.

He brusquely shoved her backwards, pinning her against the bed, pushing her arms deep into the mattress.

'What are you trying to do to me Lise?' he asked.

Lisa could feel her heart pumping frantically in her chest.

Slowly, deliberately, he tugged at the remainder of her towel, pulling it away and discarding it, so that she was now completely exposed.

A look of intense arousal flashed across his face as he surveyed her body.

'You're so fucking beautiful,' he said, his voice dry and rasping.

His hot mouth drew hers into a long, deep kiss, which left her reeling, tight blissful tension knotting her stomach.

'You've fucking blown my mind Lisa,' he said, his breathing harsh and labored. 'Do you know that?'

She smiled. 'Is that a good thing?'

Jackson gently stroked her face. 'It's a very _dangerous_ thing. Probably the most dangerous of my entire life.'

'Really? Is that so?' she teased, dancing her fingers, with feather-light delicacy, across his taut stomach, gently pushing away his towel, before trailing her hand up his hot, hard body.

Jackson winced, eyes half-closed in rapture.

He groaned, falling forwards heavily at an angle, entangling a leg between hers as he fell. He slipped an arm underneath her, and in one swift movement, he pulled her close, so close he could feel her body pulsing against his. She hooked her leg around his waist so that she was closer still. So that their hot breaths mingled. Their lips brushed against each others.

'Anyway. I thought you liked danger,' she said in hushed tones, gently arching her body against his, sliding seductively, her eyes never leaving his face.

'I love it,' Jackson said, his voice cracked with emotion, his clear blue eyes gazing deeply into her own, as he tenderly traced his fingers down her body, outlining the curve of her breasts, circling her navel, before sliding his hand further still.

Lisa froze, holding her breath, as with trembling fingers, he gently caressed the soft, warm skin of her inner thigh, closely watching her face, her eyes, before moving higher, deeper.

His breathing came in sharp, ragged bursts, as he reveled in the feel of her.

She writhed uncontrollably, waves of feeling shuddering through her body, as his hand explored her with increasing vigor. She couldn't help moaning, clawing at him, urging him closer still.

He briefly closed his eyes, as though trying to blank out the all-consuming desire which was threatening to overwhelm him, but she could feel his entire body pulsating, teetering on the brink.

'Come here,' he groaned urgently, finally giving in.

He roughly grabbed her by the hips, grinding himself powerfully against her.

'You have no fucking idea, Lisa,' he said, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. 'How much I want to make love to you.'

Her arms encircled his neck, as she pushed herself hard against him, panting heavily with mounting excitement.

He clasped her tightly, one arm supporting her back, his hand in her hair, as he kissed her deeply, brutally on the mouth, kissing her so hard, her lips felt tingling and bruised.

Then, he made love to her, with such force, she thought she might pass out with the pleasure exploding through her body.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Lisa awoke, cool gray light was streaming through a gap between the windowsill and the big blue blind, hanging in the bedroom window.

She felt peaceful, cocooned, snuggled closely against Jackson's chest. So close she could hear his heart beating.

Jackson was already awake, and staring down at her, his eyes a soft, warm blue, which sent her stomach into a frenzy of gently rolling flip-flops.

'Good morning, you fucking gorgeous beautiful woman you,' he said, beaming.

Lisa curved an arm around his neck, pulling him into a long, luxuriant kiss, which neither really wanted to break. Indeed, it was increasingly obvious that Jackson wanted to progress further, as his body pressed against hers with considerable urgency, and one of his hands roamed across her breasts before venturing southwards.

But it was clearly much later than it should be, considering their dire circumstances.

Lisa abruptly slapped Jackson's hand away, and made a strenuous effort to pull herself free from the warm comfort of his body.

'What time is it?' she asked.

'Half six,' he said, catching his breath, and retracting his arm to a comparatively safer position, resting on Lisa's tummy. 'The police will now be at De Bowen's apartment.'

'How do you know that?' Lisa asked.

'He's an early riser. There'll be a cook, a chauffeur and no doubt cleaning staff already there. He's often in the office from seven onwards.'

Lisa's insides chilled.

She remembered that Jackson had said last night that _he_ would be suspect _numero uno_ in a murder inquiry. Which meant they had to get out of this apartment. And fast. The police could be here any minute.

'I guess we need to get going,' she said.

Jackson was clearly experiencing a similar epiphany. He jumped upwards with sudden determination, swiftly dressing, before throwing a pile of Alex's clothing in Lisa's direction.

'No time for niceties,' he said.

'Charley. I have to call Charley,' she gasped.

Jackson threw a cordless phone onto the bed.

'You've got one minute Lise. And then we're out of here.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa waited and waited for Charley to answer the phone, a sickening dread gradually taking hold of her. If Charley, of all people, wasn't there at this time in the morning, then something must have happened to her. She must have been hurt or even killed when they – a faceless, ghastly _they_ – had come to take the tape.

She was about to hang up, when Charley finally answered. She was breathless, as though she'd been running.

'What's up?' she asked, a note of irritation in her voice once she realized it was Lisa.

'I wanted to see how you were,' Lisa said.

'I can't talk now,' Charley hissed in a low whisper. 'I've got _company_.'

'Oh? You mean … .'

'Yes. And he's just stepped out of the shower so I'd better go.'

So Colm had stayed after all, Lisa thought. In that case, when and how did the tape leave Charley's possession and wind up at De Bowens's?

However, _now_ didn't seem an opportune moment for Lisa to pursue the matter, as she could hear Colm's deep, burnished tones in the background, advancing rapidly towards the telephone.

'It's just Lisa,' Charley explained, as an offside.

There was what sounded like a low rumbling laugh from Colm, which then drifted out of earshot.

Charley bustled back to the phone. 'Yeah, _he_ can't believe you'd ring at such a goddamned stupid hour either,' she said with a chuckle.

So everything seemed to be fine, Lisa thought, soothed that Charley at least seemed to be wholly unawares that anything might have gone awry last night. And even feeling a little sorry for Colm who was in for a worse day than he could have possibly imagined at the Keefe campaign, once the news of Talbot's murder took hold.

Which reminded her.

'Charley?' she asked.

'Yup.'

'You still got the key card for the Sheraton?'

'Sure,' Charley said, a little suspiciously.

'Look, I've got to skip out of town for a few days … don't ask why … could you drop by the hotel this morning and grab my things? Check out on my behalf?'

Charley paused. 'Everything OK Lisa?'

'I'll tell you later. I promise.'

Colm's baritone had returned, clearly hoping to attract Charley's attention. She giggled.

'Right Lisa. That'll be fine. I've gotta dash hon.'

'I'll speak to you soon,' Lisa said, a little mournfully, as she instantly realized that she wasn't sure exactly when that would be. That the future had suddenly become so very uncertain.

She clambered out of Jackson's bed, tidying the bedclothes out of force of habit, and sifted through the mound of Alex's clothes, Jackson had left out for her, eventually donning a lace camisole and charcoal gray suit. Alex was certainly bigger than herself. She had to turn up the jacket sleeves, and the skirt was knee-length, when she fancied it was meant to be considerably shorter.

XXXXXXXXXX

In the hallway, Jackson was speaking on a cellphone to someone – presumably his friend, who it was hoped could help them out.

'I can get there even sooner,' Jackson was saying.

He nodded, listening to whoever was on the other end of the line.

'Sure. I appreciate that,' Jackson said. 'No … no. I'll tell you when I see you. It'd be better face to face.'

Jackson checked his watch. 'Well, we'll make it on the hour then … OK. Sure. One last thing. Have you swept your offices lately? Because I don't want to be … that's right. OK. Good. I'll see you then.'

Jackson turned to Lisa. 'We've got an hour and a half to kill. He's got a breakfast meeting, and can't get out of it.'

Lisa sighed, exasperated. 'Did you say it was urgent?'

Jackson shrugged. 'Kind of. I didn't want to overload him with too much at this stage. You never know who's listening in.'

'What are we going to do?' Lisa asked.

Jackson grimaced. 'Unfortunately, we can't stay here,' he said. 'And I need to find us some transport.'

'And I'm hungry,' Lisa moaned.

Jackson's face softened. 'Come here,' he said, drawing her into a warm embrace.

He kissed her on the lips repeatedly. 'This is so fucked up,' he murmured. 'But I'll make it better. I promise.'

Lisa privately wondered how. As far as she could tell, either the police or De Bowen's shady associates might do for Jackson, and as for herself, there was a remote chance, a slim possibility, that she might be able to walk away from this mess unscathed.

Except that wouldn't ever be possible. Not now.

Not if Jackson was in some kind of trouble. Or worse … .

Seized with a burst of impassioned angst, she clung to him, kissing his neck, then his lips.

'You'd better take the fur,' Jackson said, laughing at her sudden ardor.

'As long as I don't have to wear it,' she said grumpily.

Jackson hoisted a large leather holdall onto his back. Lisa took a smaller brown suede bag which contained her own ripped clothing from last night, her purse which Jackson had extricated from the De Bowen residence, and a few additional garments.

There was also a black leather holster, and a gun.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben was just quitting duty when they finally made it downstairs.

'Not such a quick getaway after all,' he muttered, his eyes twinkling.

'What the hell did you tell him?' Lisa asked Jackson, as soon as they had left the building.

But Lisa could tell he was hardly listening to her, as he quickly surveyed the area just beyond their doorway, checking for unwelcome onlookers.

He turned left, briskly walking in the opposite direction to Fifth Avenue.

'Where are we going?' Lisa asked, struggling a little to keep up with him. Despite her customary insomnia, he was clearly better accustomed to such acute sleep deprivation.

However, instead of replying, Jackson suddenly pushed her against a parked car, forcing her down onto the ground. He crouched beside her.

'What was that for?' Lisa cried, but realized from the wide-eyed, vigilant expression on Jackson's face that he was clearly hiding from view.

Lisa was able to peer around the tire of the Buick she now found herself pinned against, and saw, on the other side of the street, a tall, gray-haired man stepping out of a parked black Mercedes.

She instantly recognized him as the man she had seen enter Beauchamps, shortly before Jackson, just five days ago.

Jackson snaked an arm around her, pulling her close.

'OK Lisa. Let's move slowly around the car. He's coming our way.'

She did as he bid, crawling on her hands and knees, glad that there hadn't been any rainfall, glad too that this was the Upper East Side, and that the sidewalk had at least been cleaned in the not too distant past.

Jackson followed close behind.

Lisa could now see the gray-haired guy was strutting across the street and heading straight for Jackson's apartment block.

'Fuck,' Jackson muttered. 'This means they're onto us.'

'I recognize him,' Lisa said.

'Yeah. You should,' Jackson said dryly. 'He sat in your hotel reception everyday for three months straight.'

'You serious?' Lisa asked, genuinely shocked at this piece of information.

'Uh-huh,' Jackson said. 'You've met Gerry Montana, many times over.'

So _this _was the famous Gerry Montana. The guy who'd devised the plot to kill Keefe. A plot Jackson had described as … what was it? … 'A crock of shit.'

Montana entered Jackson's apartment building.

'Come on,' Jackson said, grabbing Lisa by the shoulder.

They ran down the remainder of the street, turning left onto Madison Avenue, which was already seething with early morning traffic.

Lisa had to stop, collapsing against a shop window. Jackson looked at her a little impatiently, but then saw that she was doubled up with pain.

'It's just a stitch,' she gasped.

'I thought you were in good shape,' he said.

'Usually. I am,' she panted. 'But not after a night like …. .'

'Last night,' Jackson said, removing the heavy fur cloak from her care.

Lisa was feeling queasy with exhaustion. And hunger. She closed her eyes, and was relieved, when she opened them again, to see that Jackson had hailed a cab.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Where's this?' Lisa asked, as they exited the cab in a surprisingly deserted side street, not too far from the United Nations building.

They rapidly walked towards a car lot belonging to a car rental company.

'Wait here,' Jackson commanded.

She watched him enter the car lot, and cross the yard to talk to a man who was standing on the steps of a trailer. He seemed to know Jackson, judging by their cordial handshake.

He invited Jackson into the trailer.

Jackson momentarily looked back at Lisa, then he disappeared inside.

She waited with growing impatience for Jackson's re-emergence.

She was also beginning to attract some unwanted interest. A couple of guys sauntered past her, eyeing her strangely. Their pace slowed and they seemed to be debating between themselves whether they should approach her.

She pointedly looked away, suddenly glad that Jackson had packed a gun into her suede bag.

To her relief, Jackson re-appeared, trotting busily down the trailer's steps, jangling a set of keys in his hand. He beckoned her over.

Lisa grabbed the suede bag and flung the burdensome fur cloak over her arm, tripping towards Jackson as fast as her heels could carry her.

Jackson was already throwing his heavy holdall onto the backseat of a coffee-colored Chrysler sedan, which had clearly seen better days.

'Welcome to our new home from home,' Jackson announced proudly.

'You rented _this_?' Lisa asked.

'Nope,' Jackson said. 'I bought it. Cash. It's an ex-rental. The guy here owed me a favor, so I called time.'

Lisa didn't dare ask what the favor was, and from the warning look in Jackson's eye, she knew not to ask.

Instead, she hopped into the passenger seat, grinning inanely.

It felt good to have some kind of vehicle to hide away in.

Even better to finally offload the fur cloak, as Jackson piled it into the rear, away from sight.

He climbed in beside her.

'OK, we've got twenty minutes to make Lexington,' he said.

'Lexington?' Lisa asked. 'Your friend works on Lexington Avenue?'

Jackson smiled. 'Sure Lise. You've been there before. Remember?'

XXXXXXXXXX

They parked a short walk away from the offices on Lexington, close by Fifty-Third Street, where Lisa had followed Jackson and Alex.

It was almost eight o'clock.

Jackson had suggested she stay in the car. But Lisa couldn't stand the idea of yet another anxious wait for his return.

Lexington Avenue was already humming with activity, as hordes of commuters were arriving for work.

Jackson stood in line at the same kiosk, situated to the right of the office block's amphitheater forecourt, where Lisa had tried, in vain as it turned out, to spy covertly on Jackson and Alex.

Jackson shoved a pack of M&Ms into Lisa's hand.

'We'll grab a bite as soon as this is done with,' he promised.

'Thanks,' Lisa said, cramming a huge handful of candies into her mouth. Anything to sate the hunger pangs which were gnawing at her insides.

'You not hungry?' she asked.

'I can wait,' Jackson said.

They entered the building, joining the throng of suits waiting in the foyer for an elevator to whisk them upstairs to their place of work.

'So who is this friend?' Lisa asked, dimly aware that she had seen him once – right here – except he had been obscured from view. In any case, she had been too fixated on Jackson and Alex, to pay over much attention.

Jackson smiled. 'My oldest. I've known him since we were kids. You'll like him.'

Lisa didn't want to alarm Jackson, but she was becoming increasingly aware of a short, stocky, bald man in a beige suit who was keenly staring at them – yet the moment she had caught his eye, he had looked away, making a great show of checking his watch instead.

'Is that your guy?' she asked Jackson, nudging him and subtly flicking her eyes in the beige-suited man's direction. Jackson had been preoccupied with dialing a number on his cellphone, but he looked over, nevertheless.

The beige man instantly pulled a cellphone from his pocket, turning away from their gaze while he made a call.

'Something's wrong,' Lisa said, tremulously. 'I know it.'

Jackson scrutinized her face, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

'What makes you say that?'

'Where's your friend, for one?'

'I was about to call him. Tell him we were here.'

Yet even as he spoke, a shadowy recollection of the broad-chested man with a rumbling laugh, crossing this same foyer with Jackson and Alex, flitted through Lisa's mind.

How had she not thought it before? But of course … .

She gazed upwards at the placards hanging on the wall, detailing the names of the companies located in the office block. She didn't have to look far. She'd already seen it before, but somehow it had never registered, never fully seeped into her consciousness.

_Buchanan, Sheen and Smith Associates_. Seventh Floor.

A flurry of nauseous bile filled her throat. She swallowed hard, grabbing at Jackson's arm.

'Don't make the call,' she urged.

But she knew it was too late. The beige man was staring at them with renewed interest, gabbling into his cellphone as he moved quickly towards the elevators.

Luckily there was still a thick clump of people between him and them.

'Why not? Lise? What's wrong?' Jackson said. 'You've gone pale. Are you ill?'

'I know him. I know your friend,' she said, pulling him rapidly away from the elevators and the beige man, back towards the main entrance.

'Yeah, you saw him.'

'No Jackson. He works for the Keefe campaign. His name's Colm Buchanan. I've seen him almost everyday since I've been in New York. He took me and Charley to see _Rigoletto_ and he spent last night with her. He was in her apartment when I called her early this morning.' Lisa said all this as fast as she could, hoping that it was enough to at least dissuade Jackson from calling.

Enough to persuade him to get out of here.

Fast.

In the space of a few seconds, Jackson's face changed hue from a normal flesh tone to a livid chalky white. His eyes had iced into a fierce cold blue.

Lisa could tell that he was frantically calculating the import of this information.

He thrust his cell back into his pocket and grabbed Lisa's hand,

'OK Lise. We're going to walk out of here, calmly and coolly. Don't look back at Baldie, whatever you do,' he said in low tones. 'And run when I tell you.'

Lisa inhaled deeply.

'OK.'

They headed out of the main entrance, fighting against the flow, into the forecourt.

'Come on,' Jackson said, quickly pulling her away from the building. 'He's watching us.'

'Who?'

'Colm. He's behind us. Watching from his office window.'

Lisa was desperate to stop and look, but Jackson pre-empted her, gripping her hand ever more tightly. 'There's no time. We've got to get back to the car. And Baldie's going to be on our heels any moment now.'

Jackson blanched, almost coming to a standstill. 'Shit. Montana.'

Sure enough, Gerry Montana was waiting on the sidewalk, arms folded, a broad grin on his face.

Jackson seized Lisa's arm and bolted, dragging her across the forecourt in the opposite direction.

Jackson ploughed through a line of people waiting at the kiosk, scattering them in a variety of directions.

'Asshole!' yelled a burly-looking guy, stepping onto the sidewalk, and fortuitously blocking Montana's direct path to them. The burly guy was roughly pushed aside, but Jackson and Lisa were already around the corner, and sprinting up Fifty-Third in the direction of East River.

Except now, having managed to avoid the chaos at the kiosk, the beige-suited guy from the foyer was also in close pursuit.

'Jackson!' Lisa panted. 'The car's in the other direction.'

'We'll get it later,' he yelled.

Lisa dared to glance behind and saw that their beige-suited pursuant was grappling for his gun.

Jackson pushed Lisa to the ground, falling clumsily on top of her, as the beige man stopped to take aim.

From her prone position on the sidewalk, Lisa could see Gerry Montana was close behind the beige man, approaching at a rapid rate.

Then, to her surprise, Montana pulled at the beige man's jacket, forcing him to topple backwards, his gun flying out of his grasp.

The beige man leaped up, furiously berating Montana, who stood and watched, an inscrutable expression on his face, as Jackson and Lisa took advantage of this golden opportunity, to scrabble to their feet and run.

They continued running, hand in hand.


	14. Colm Buchanan

**Author's Note:**

Sorry for the long delay in updating – I did warn there might be a problem! I'm away again from tomorrow for a few days but should be back by the end of next week when hopefully I can pull together another chapter asap. I've recently spent a bit of time carefully working out the plot through to the end of this story – it can get a bit complicated at times. Anyway, I've calculated that there will be 20 chapters in all, so after this one, that's five to go. I sincerely hope you all stay on board until the end. I've loved writing this so far, and as always, getting such kind and appreciative reviews really makes the journey worthwhile. So thanks as always!

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Colm Buchanan**

One look at the tight, grim expression on Jackson's face warned Lisa that too many questions, at this moment in time, would get her nowhere.

He was concentrating hard as he weaved their chocolate brown Chrysler sedan in and out of the heavy traffic congestion on the Bronx Expressway, as best he could.

Lisa was swamped with exhaustion, and an overweening hunger. Jackson's offering of a pack of M&Ms over an hour ago, had done little to stave off her pangs, and their frenetic flight from Lexington Avenue, had further dissipated her energy.

Glimpsing again at Jackson, she couldn't help but note how pale and washed out he looked. He needed rest and sustenance too, but this was an unlikely prospect for some time it seemed.

First they had to clear the city, Jackson had said.

Lisa scrunched her eyes shut, trying to stay calm, even though it was difficult in the circumstances.

Surely Colm had been involved in transferring the Miami tape recording of herself and Jackson from Charley to De Bowen?

It seemed all too logical.

And once Colm had known that Jackson wanted to meet him, he had then tried to trap them.

Why had he done that? What had they ever done to _him_?

He had to be working covertly for De Bowen, of course.

'Is he an assassin?' she asked Jackson, unable to contain herself any longer.

Jackson flicked his eyes briefly in her direction, then back to the road ahead of him.

'Colm?' he said. 'Sure he is. One of the best. He got me into the business in the first place.'

It all seemed crystal clear now Lisa thought about it. Colm had once described himself as a 'fixer'. Which now seemed like a euphemism if there ever was one.

Plus, he had a smooth, easy charm, not unlike Jackson's. Although there was something a little more raw, even needy, about Jackson, which had only intensified the more she knew him. Even so. She'd caught a passing resemblance in their manner, their style.

'So … we can guess Colm was working for De Bowen then?' she asked tentatively.

Jackson grimaced. 'Colm always works for Colm. Which usually means he works for the highest bidder.'

'So why do you figure he's working for Keefe?'

Of course she already knew the answer. She almost felt stupid for asking the question. But she wanted her suspicions confirmed.

Jackson smiled weakly. 'I guess if they planned another pop at Keefe, then I was going to be the last person to find out.'

'_They_, meaning De Bowen,' Lisa clarified.

Jackson grunted in seeming agreement, whilst pulling an audacious overtaking manoeuvre on a sluggish freightliner truck which was impeding more rapid progress.

He continued to scythe his way through the traffic which was clogging all six lanes of the expressway, with impressive speed and control.

Before long they were on the New England Thruway, otherwise known as Interstate 95, winging their way towards Connecticut.

Jackson seemed to relax a little once they were on the Connecticut Turnpike, beyond New York's sprawling suburbia.

The early morning had been typified by thick, gray clouds and spitting rain. But at last a sliver of clean white light had shot through the cloud cover, and the freeway was fast losing its dark wet gleam as the temperatures gradually headed upwards.

'We need to eat,' Jackson muttered, indicating to turn right into a drive-thru McDonalds.

_We also need to talk_, Lisa thought glumly, her mind teeming with worries. What the hell were they going to do?

They ordered breakfast McMuffins and coffee and pulled into a half-empty parking lot.

Jackson was clearly hungrier than Lisa had thought, devouring his food in the time it took for Lisa to peel open her tiny cream carton and slop it into her coffee.

She smiled inwardly, thinking how only two short days ago, at the Met Museum's café, Jackson had scornfully proved to her, that he actually _ate_ at all, by stealing a forkful of her salad.

_So much had happened._

'Where are we going?' Lisa finally asked.

Jackson closed his eyes, seeming to savour the hot black coffee as he swilled it around his mouth before swallowing.

'I have a place in Maine,' he said. He looked at her intently, his usually clear blue eyes dulled with weariness. His pinched pale features slightly frightened her.

Lisa wondered if Jackson should aim further. Try to leave the USA altogether, as it was only a matter of time – a very short time she imagined – before the police would be harrying him over the death of De Bowen.

After all, George De Bowen was very much a _somebody_ – not just in the world of finance and banking, but also as a recognized public figure. A bastion of American honor and values.

Maybe Jackson did indeed plan to do just that. To head overseas. Away from it all.

Was she then a liability?

Jackson seemed to read her thoughts. 'I think it's best you come with me,' he said. 'At least for now.'

'I guess your fears that there might be someone out there who knew _who_ I was, and hoped to harm me, were true after all,' she said a little drolly.

The brief airing of sunshine had swiftly faded. Already, dark swirling clouds were circling above them, and a faint patina of fine drizzle was coating their windshield.

'Though I don't see why,' she added, frowning into her coffee cup.

'Yeah. I don't really get it either,' Jackson said. 'Which indicates that Colm was completely in thrall to De Bowen on this one.'

He knitted his brows in puzzlement. 'It's not like Colm … he likes to be the bossman.'

'You said you've known him since school?' Lisa asked curiously. 'Yet he's British.'

'I was educated in England,' Jackson said.

'Really?'

'After my folks died.'

'Why England?'

Jackson smirked. 'Courtesy of an uncle. Yet another _De Bowenesque_ Master of the Universe. Henry Beauchamp.'

'As in _Beauchamps_?' Lisa asked.

Jackson nodded. 'Yup.' He grabbed Lisa's half-eaten McMuffin, biting off a mouthful, before thrusting it back into her hands.

She stared at him in shocked annoyance.

'You're a pack of M&Ms ahead of me,' he explained, a small, cheeky smile momentarily lighting up his face.

'If you're that hungry,' Lisa huffed. 'Why don't you just buy yourself another?'

But Jackson was already slipping the gear out of PARK and revving up the engine. 'No time,' he muttered. 'I want to hit Maine by nightfall.'

He threw her a chilling glance. 'You'll see why when we get there.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Their journey continued at a steady, uneventful pace, as the Interstate 95 progressed towards Rhode Island, then through to Massachusetts.

Lisa fitfully dozed, even though she wanted to quiz Jackson further about his relationship with Colm. But she was simply too tired to stay awake.

She became more alert, however, once she spotted a roadblock ahead of them, manned by state troopers.

'It's just an accident,' Jackson mumbled, although she could see his face was strained with anxiety as they approached.

They both held their breath as they drove past, glad to be waved on.

Jackson's mood then seemed to brighten a little. He even grinned, surprising Lisa into a flurry of gentle excitement.

Her mind flashed back to how close they had been last night, how incredibly pleasurable their time together had been.

Her heart beat a little faster, and a rosy glow stole across her cheeks.

'This is so fucked up,' Jackson grimaced, a little apologetically Lisa thought, echoing his words as they stood close together in his apartment hallway, moments before leaving to meet Colm.

'It can't be helped,' Lisa said. 'Mind you, we could have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble this morning if you'd bothered to tell me exactly _who_ your friend was, _before _we went to meet him,' she added, a wry smirk on her face.

'You never asked,' he said.

The weighty sadness which had clung to him since leaving New York instantly returned.

Lisa felt a little guilty for her insensitivity.

Not only was Jackson, in all likelihood, on the verge of becoming a fugitive from the law, but he had also discovered that his close friend had betrayed him, allying himself with De Bowen's murderous designs.

'Were you _very_ close to Colm?' she asked softly.

'Pretty much so.' He hesitated, seemingly uncertain about continuing. Unwilling to reveal too much, she thought, about himself. His past.

'When I was sent to school in England, Colm was virtually my only friend. He was a few years older. Kind of looked out for me. And after school, and Oxford, he worked for my Uncle Harry.'

'I thought he was in the … assassination business?' Lisa asked tentatively.

'He was. Covertly. And it was Colm who fixed me up with the best training course available to someone in my profession.'

'What was that?'

'Kosovo,' Jackson said in a hollow voice. He cast a sidelong glance at Lisa and sighed. 'There's nowhere like the theatre of war to learn your trade – especially a fucked up civil war where one-time neighbors and friends have become happy to tear each other limb from limb.'

'Who … who did you work for?' Lisa asked tremulously, hazily thinking that Jackson could have been little more than a kid during the Kosovan conflict. It was a war she knew nothing about.

Jackson seemed a little reluctant to answer her. He chewed his lip nervously.

'I was seconded to a Serbian militia … nothing more than a gang of thugs but with bucketloads of money, lots of popular support, and a thin veneer of style.' He winced a little as if disturbed by a sudden memory. 'Barbarous butchers, the lot of them,' he added in husky tones.

Lisa hardly dared look at him, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, on the red brake lights of a silver PT Cruiser in front of them.

The rain was starting to fall again. Light at first, but gradually gaining strength. The windshield wipers swished relentlessly to and fro, as traffic slowed on the freeway.

Jackson frowned in concentration.

'We need gas,' he muttered.

Lisa wanted to learn more, even though she realized the past, and undoubtedly Colm too, were painful subjects for Jackson right now.

'So Colm's lobbying business is a front?' she asked.

Jackson sneered. 'What do you think Lisa? Kind of obvious that one.'

'So Keefe's doomed,' Lisa sighed.

Jackson shrugged. 'Looks like it. Colm always gets his man. I've never known him to mess up – and if he ever did, he'd take it real hard. You can bet on that. He's very driven.'

Lisa agreed wholeheartedly. There had been a cold, flinty look in his eyes which had always deterred her from trusting him.

She was glad of her instincts. Glad that she had never allowed herself to warm to him, despite his good looks, designer suits and easy manner.

Unlike Charley of course, who had fallen for him on sight.

Charley!

The word rushed through her mind with a terrifying chill. She had asked Charley to fetch her bag from the Sheraton Manhattan.

Would Colm leave Charley alone?

After all, he was hardly a guy to trust.

However, now that Colm had secured the tape De Bowen wanted from Charley, what further need did he have of her?

OK, Charley had listened to the tape, which Colm might well know if he was privy at all to the contents of the listening device stowed away in Lisa's baggage.

Plus, he might assume that Charley had some knowledge of her relationship with Jackson.

But Charley couldn't possibly conceive of a link between Jackson and Colm – she wouldn't have an inkling of Colm's true identity. His profession, or, as seemed increasingly likely, his plans to kill Keefe.

Therefore, she was hardly a major threat to Colm himself, in any real shape or form.

Even so, Lisa thought it best to check up on her.

She'd call her as soon as she got the chance. Perhaps alert her to Colm's true nature, without giving away too much information which could jeopardize Charley's life.

The last thing she wanted was for Charley to get involved with someone who was looking to assassinate the man who could be the next president of the United States!

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson stopped at a gas station attached to a small convenience store, close to Boston.

'I'm going to fill up and grab us something to eat,' he said.

Lisa was left alone, sharply aware that her cellphone, currently switched off, was still in her purse, which Jackson had extricated from De Bowen's apartment. The purse was contained in a brown suede bag, dumped onto the back seat, buried under the voluminous fur coat she had been forced to drape herself in earlier.

Lisa struggled with herself. Obviously it was dangerous to make a call because of the fact that the police were able to trace a signal.

But as far as Lisa could tell, there should be no linking _her_ with Jackson – at least in connection to De Bowen's death.

Surely then _she_ was safe to make a call?

She could see that Jackson was still waiting in line at the payment counter, an impatient look on his face. She had a minute at best.

Lisa reached under the fur coat and grabbed her purse, quickly liberating her cellphone. She felt a slight twinge of guilt as she switched it on. Her start-up screen was a photo, depicting her Dad with his arm around her. The shot had been taken on a fishing trip last year. They looked contented. Secure.

She furiously dialed Charley's home number. There was no-one at home. Nerves jangling, she dialed Charley's cellphone. The line was ringing but she didn't have time to hold on for a response, because Jackson, armed with a large brown paper bag in his arms, was striding purposefully towards the car.

Lisa instantly flipped her phone shut, pressing the OFF button, and slid it into a side-pocket of Alex's charcoal gray suit, which she was wearing.

Her heart was pounding. Even though she was sure that her calling Charley shouldn't compromise Jackson's getaway, she was pretty damned sure he would not like what she had done.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lunch was on the move; a sandwich and some potato chips, washed down with ice-cold bottles of Coke. They didn't speak much, quickly pushing past Boston.

Lisa wondered if she should voice her concerns about Charley.

'You know what Lise, I can hear the cogs turning in your brain from here … it's almost deafening,' Jackson said, startling her out of her reverie. 'What's bothering you?'

'Apart from _everything_, you mean?' she laughed.

He grinned. 'Yeah … apart from everything.'

'I'm worried for Charley,' she admitted. 'And … people I know and love. Dad, for one.' She fixed a plaintive gaze on Jackson's face. 'It doesn't help that I know how you guys operate you see.'

'Let's get _safe_ first and then think about what we should do,' Jackson said briskly. 'But … if it's any consolation … I can't really see why Colm would need to threaten your friends and family. His sole aim is to save his own skin, complete his mission. That's the way he works. He's all business. Doesn't like unnecessary mess.'

Lisa thought, with some bitterness, that Jackson had demonstrated similar confidence in Brody, claiming that as one of _his_ kind, Brody was a professional, not an unthinking killer.

But look what had happened to poor Talbot Haynes?

'Well I sure hope you're right there Jackson,' Lisa said.

'The bottom line is _this_, Lisa. He won't want you, me, or anybody else to fuck up his plan to off Keefe – if that's indeed what he's up to,' Jackson continued.

Lisa chilled at his words.

'Do you think we should warn Keefe?' finally asking the one question which had been bugging her foremost. At heart she felt obliged to do so. It was only right and fair that Keefe knew he had an infamous assassin on his staff.

Jackson burst into loud pealing laughter. 'Look Lise. I want out of this game. Nothing more to do with it,' he said firmly. 'Nothing adds up here. Nothing fits. There's something … something I can't put my finger on, and it's bugging me bad. My brain's hurting from trying to work it out.'

A dark look flashed across his face.

'You know Lise, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm fucking terrified. Never been more so in my entire life.'

A stab of alarm ripped through Lisa. If _Jackson _was scared, what hope did they have?

Jackson looked across at her, a regretful look on his face. He momentarily stroked her cheek.

'Don't worry Lise. I'm going to look after you. We're going somewhere very safe, I promise.'

XXXXXXXXXX

It was almost dark when Lisa awoke. The road ahead was long, gray, desolate, bordered by thick clumps of dark woodland. Soft flurries of snow wafted onto their windshield.

'Where the hell are we?' Lisa moaned. She shivered with sudden cold, despite the loud roar of the car heater.

Jackson smiled at her.

'We're in Maine.'

'Is it … is it actually _snowing_?' Lisa asked, incredulous. Surely, it was too early?

'Sure is,' Jackson said. 'It's freakishly cold out there as well.'

A string of pale white lights shimmered to their left.

'That's where we're headed for now. We need more supplies,' Jackson said.

'Supplies? You make it sound like we're going on a trek,' Lisa said dolefully. She was so cold she fancied wrapping the De Bowens's fur cloak around her … and she could hardly believe she was even thinking this seeing how much she loathed the damnable garment.

'We are. Kind of,' Jackson said. 'I have a place near to here, close to the border. It's pretty much off the beaten track. We can shelter there.'

Lisa gazed mournfully at the thick clumps of tree, clotting the landscape. The snow was intensifying, darting through the evening sky, coating the ground.

She guessed Jackson's hideout was _somewhere_ amongst the trees. Far away from this thin vestige of civilization. This road. And the twinkling lights which were suddenly much closer.

Jackson hung a left, the car scooping through thick gravel before grinding to a halt outside a diner, next to a gas station and grocery store.

'We'll eat first,' Jackson said.

Outside it was as cold as Jackson had warned. Lisa had reluctantly, but out of necessity, donned the fur cloak. It felt weighty and suffocating over her shoulders.

Jackson slipped his arm around her waist and brushed his lips against her cheeks.

Her face tingled – a combination of the sudden biting cold and Jackson's warm breath on her chilled skin.

She was tired. Hungry. But more than anything, she realized, she had been craving his touch. His closeness.

They were almost alone in the diner, aside from a tall, ruddy-cheeked man and his fleshy wife, who ate in stern silence.

The waitress was plump and squeaky. She brought them a menu and disappeared, taking an impolite fifteen minutes to return for their order.

Lisa asked for a cheeseburger, guiltily realizing that this was probably the most unhealthy eating day of her entire adult life.

But hell. She was on the run. When had she done _that_ before?

Jackson ordered a mixed grill, but from the sickened look on his face, he didn't seem too chuffed with his choice once it arrived. His supposedly griddled chops were swimming in a thin brown greasy liquid which was seeping into his fries, staining them brown.

'You know what Jackson,' Lisa said with a weary sigh. 'This is a really crummy date.'

She followed up her complaint with a smile, desperately hoping to puncture the cold gloom which had descended on them since entering the diner.

Jackson chuckled. 'This is fucking vile,' he griped, overturning a blackened piece of steak, and pushing a charred splodge of tomato to one side of his plate with his fork.

'I'd rather have stopped earlier, but you were snoring away, and I didn't want to wake you,' he explained, a gleam in his eye.

Lisa was outraged. 'I don't _snore_,' she snarled.

Jackson sported an air of false remorse, swiftly breached by a broad grin. 'I'm afraid you do Lise. I've noticed it a couple of times now. Maybe you should get your sinuses checked out?'

Lisa grinned in return. 'You bastard,' she said tenderly.

She then took a hefty bite out of her burger, and almost threw up. 'That's rank,' she moaned.

'I tell you what,' Jackson said, shoving his plate aside. 'Let's just grab the groceries instead. There's a small cooking facility at the cabin. It'll do.'

The _cabin? _Lisa thought with a shudder.

So they really were heading off into the back of beyond.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson disappeared into the grocery store, while Lisa headed for the restroom. She desperately needed to freshen up.

She splashed cold water on her face and hands and then hunted for a towel or a dryer, but there was none to be seen.

'Damn,' she cursed softly, rubbing a sleeve across her face and wiping her damp hands down her skirt. In so doing, her hand smoothed over the solid lump in her skirt pocket – her cellphone.

She decided to quickly call her father. She had no idea if Jackson had any communications fitted up at this remote shack of his – the mere idea of which was giving her the collywobbles. After all, when would she speak to her Dad again?

Annoyingly, the one time she really hoped to speak with him, reassure him that she was OK, there was no reply. She left a message, wishing him well, saying she was fine, that she had decided to take a road trip and would call him soon. She asked if he would notify Cynthia at the Lux Atlantic of her change in plans, promising to call the hotel as soon as she could with more information.

She wondered if she should simply call Cynthia direct. But somehow she didn't fancy having to lie to her. She figured it would have been even more difficult than lying to her Dad. After all, there had been countless times when she had assured him that she was well and happy, only to burst into torrents of tears the moment their call ended.

She checked her watch. She'd only been absent five minutes. So there was plenty of time to call Charley. See how she was.

But again, there was no answer from her apartment or her cellphone which rang interminably, before switching to answer machine mode.

She didn't leave a message, trying to suppress the vague inkling of alarm which prickled through her. She sure hoped Jackson was right.

Again, she told herself. What harm could a girl like Charley pose to someone like Colm? He wasn't a goddamned _psychopath_. He'd even been Jackson's_ friend_. The guy he seemed to trust most in the world.

Lisa headed out of the diner into the darkened forecourt.

Jackson was already loading up the trunk of the car. His face turned to her, pale and sombre in the gathering gloom.

'What kept you?' he asked, a note of irritation in his voice. But he didn't expect an answer. 'Let's hit the road. We've got at least a good hour and a half's driving ahead of us.'

He sniffed ominously at the skies, thick with snow, which was tumbling ever faster towards them.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sure enough, their journey into the forest was increasingly fraught, as the snow fell heavily, hampering their view of the tight, twisty track their Chrysler was struggling to follow.

Jackson muttered angrily as the Chrysler's tires slipped and strained against the track's icy surface.

'Fuck. I should have thought,' he grumbled. 'They sold snow chains back at the store.'

Lisa stared fearfully at the tall dark trees, seemingly impenetrable, which reared up out of the darkness around them. Her throat felt dry and constricted. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out across her forehead.

'Is there much further to go?' she asked, her voice shaking.

Jackson peered into the chasing arrows of snow steadily pounding their windshield, his eyes squinting at the glare from their headlights as they illuminated the trees, which seemed to jump behind them and out of sight, as the Chrysler slid at breakneck speed along the track. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel and Lisa could hear his breathing, low and labored.

'Not too far,' he breathed.

For one heart-stopping moment, the car almost spun out of control, slamming into a bank of bark, but Jackson managed to snatch at the wheel, skidding the car noisily into safety.

They paused momentarily. Their hearts beating. The car's engine racing, before settling into a loud rumbling rhythm. The snow swiftly enveloped the windshield, the windows, blocking out the trembling pale light projected by the headlights. The windscreen wipers bravely swooshed at the snow, compressing it, forcing it away, so that the windshield was soon framed by thick dark ice.

Jackson took a deep breath and slammed his foot onto the gas, juddering the car into action.

'I told you we were better off getting here by nightfall, didn't I?' he shouted over the roar of the engine.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson pulled the car to a halt after a further hour of jaw-grinding tension.

His headlights shone weakly through the snow onto a low wooden structure, barely visible through a knot of trees. The same trees rendered a closer approach unfeasible.

'It's a short walk from here,' Jackson said.

Lisa wrapped the fur cloak tightly around herself and followed his example by heading out of the car. She grabbed the brown suede bag from the back seat and gathered the groceries from the trunk, while Jackson hauled out the heavy holdall he had packed at his apartment.

They stumbled through the snow, towards the cottage, for what seemed an eternity, the thick snow crunching beneath their feet, as they were pulverized by further heavy downfalls, some falling from the branches of the trees overhead.

As soon as they were safely esconsed inside, Jackson lit an oil lamp by the door. Warm light flooded the room.

The room was large, an epitome of rustic comfort, comprising a small kitchenette, an expansive living area featuring a large brown sofa, a small dining table, and a wide open fireplace.

Jackson hastened over to the fireplace, while Lisa unpacked their groceries into a cupboard. She noticed there was a small refrigerator.

'There's a generator out back,' Jackson said. 'I'll feed it some oil as soon as I've got this fire lit.'

Lisa collapsed heavily onto the sofa. If it wasn't for the circumstances, she wondered if she'd like this place. It seemed homey, even charming.

She closed her eyes, gradually thawing as the pile of logs hunkered into the fireplace licked into life, crackling and spitting energetically.

She must have drifted into sleep, because by the time she awoke, the fire had settled into a warm, steady blaze, and she could hear a kettle fizzing to a boil.

Jackson grinned at her, bringing her a hot cup of coffee and a plate of fried eggs on toast.

Lisa sat up eagerly. She was starving.

He soon rejoined her with his own meal.

'I was shattered,' she said.

'I'm not surprised,' he muttered. 'You need a good long sleep.'

Lisa felt a little embarrassed, asking. 'Is there a bed?'

'You're lying on it,' Jackson said.

Lisa could barely conceal her disappointment. Although she was dog-tired, she hadn't planned on sleeping alone. Not here, in the middle of nowhere.

Jackson beamed, leaning closer towards her. 'Don't worry Lise. It opens out.'

Lisa blushed. 'I wasn't being a _wanton_,' she complained, her eyes sparkling in the firelight.

'That's a shame,' Jackson pouted. He took hold of their now empty plates and moved back to the kitchenette.

'Come on,' he beckoned. 'Come and see the center of operations.'

He moved behind the dining table and reached down, unlocking, then tugging open a trapdoor.

Stairs led down from here to an expansive pitch-dark basement. Lisa cautiously followed Jackson. He flipped on a light switch, illuminating what Lisa could now see was effectively a secure, concrete bunker. Shelves lined the walls, sporting a vast array of tins, containers, boxes and files. Everything was meticulously labeled. Lisa couldn't help but notice that there was a large number of boxes titled _ammunition_.

Jackson was immediately drawn to a box of electronic equipment, shunted into the far corner of the basement. He pulled out an array of transistor devices and what looked like a satellite phone.

Lisa's face broke into a smile. But Jackson frowned. 'Don't get too excited. This stuff is pretty much junk.'

He sighed. 'I planned to fix it on my next visit – which I _hoped_ would be a little more leisurely.'

Lisa yawned.

'You'd better go sleep,' Jackson grunted, pulling open boxes and rifling through the contents.

Lisa didn't enjoy being dismissed like this, but she accepted Jackson's armful of bedding. He followed her upstairs and helped to make up the bed.

She fell onto the bedding, exhausted. Jackson helped remove her shoes and then covered her with a thick quilt.

He smiled, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, before disappearing from view.

Lisa tried to summon up the energy to respond, but she was simply too tired, falling into a deep sleep the moment Jackson's face faded from sight.

XXXXXXXXXX

When Lisa awoke she found herself intertwined with Jackson's bare-chested body, her face nestled into the soft, warm flesh of his throat.

She delighted in the sound of his gentle breathing sighs.

Beyond the bed, the fire had died, dwindling to a seething mass of graying embers. As a consequence, the cabin had cooled considerably.

She shivered a little, aware that she was dressed only in her underwear. Jackson must have undressed her last night.

Lisa huddled closer to Jackson, savouring the heat from his body.

She was soon aware that her movements had awoken him. His heart was beating a little quicker, and his arms tightened their hold on her. His warm mouth nuzzled her hair, then trailed slowly down her forehead, her cheeks, resting finally on her lips.

'It's so quiet,' she whispered.

Sure enough, the soft thud of the snow falling beyond a large window behind them, was the only noticeable sound, apart from their breathing.

'We're in the middle of nowhere,' he said, with a smile. 'Literally. Just you and me.'

His lips brushed against hers, a slight, delicate pressure, graduating to a more urgent kiss. His lean body glided against hers, his hands caressing her skin, as he gently probed her mouth with his tongue, deepening their kiss.

She moaned softly, wrapping her body tightly around his.

A wild gleam had alighted in Jackson's eyes. He grinned, slipping off her underwear in a brisk, practiced manner, so that she was naked against him.

'What do you say to working up a bit of an appetite for breakfast?' Jackson asked naughtily.

Lisa kissed him eagerly in response.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lisa couldn't have imagined a more deliciously blissful way to start the day.

She felt as though all the worries and strains of the last twenty-four hours had dissolved, as they clung to each other, happily spent, their bodies sheathed in a thin layer of perspiration. The only backdrop to their faint panting breathes, the gently popping pit-pat of falling snow.

It really did feel like they were alone in the world. And, strangely, she didn't even mind. In fact she reveled in it.

Something that would have been unthinkable, abhorrent to her, just a short time ago.

Even though she couldn't read his mind, his emotions, his motivations – and she wondered if she ever would – she had a _sense_ of him, a bonding between them, which was almost tangible, visceral. A feeling deep within the pits of her stomach which was new and exciting and wholly addictive.

Jackson leant over her, supporting his upper body with one arm, and gazed at her, a small smile on his face.

'Well, I don't know about you, but I'm ravenous,' he remarked.

'Famished,' she murmured in reply, craning her head upwards to kiss the corner of his mouth. He gently pushed her back down again, tenderly kissing her full on the mouth, before sliding his lips across her cheek, down to her throat.

'Will we have to stay out here for long?' she asked dreamily.

Jackson shrugged. 'No more than a day or two.' He sighed. 'I need to devise a watertight plan. The NYPD will definitely be wondering where I've got to by now … not to mention Alex.'

Lisa bridled a little at the mention of her name. It was a nonsensical jealous reflex, she knew that, but she couldn't help herself.

The thought had occurred to her, that in spite of Jackson's having killed her father, Alex might be able to wield some sort of influence, which might well save her fiancée, if she believed in him – much in the way that her father had clearly affected the investigative proceedings surrounding the plot to kill Keefe in Miami.

This, of course, might well be a good thing.

'Have … have you considered calling Alex?' she asked hesitantly. She hated to ask. She didn't really want Jackson further involved with her. She couldn't help herself.

'What for?' Jackson scoffed.

'She might be able to provide you with an alibi?'

'Hardly,' Jackson grunted. He pulled away from Lisa, lying flat on his back next to her.

'What about Colm?' Lisa asked tentatively, aware at how perverse this may sound. Yet the truth was, she couldn't imagine Colm actually _wanted_ Jackson to be turned over to the police. He knew far too much.

'I had thought about that,' Jackson murmured. 'I could make life very awkward for him.'

Jackson sat up, as if about to haul himself out of bed. He looked back at Lisa.

'Colm's very close to Alex, you know. Oddly, he didn't like her father at all. Avoided working with him if he could. But Alex and Colm have been friends for years.'

'But not romantically?'

'I thought so once. But Alex latched onto _me_ as soon as I moved back to the US from Europe. Colm introduced us.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'It seemed very convenient at the time.'

Jackson looked pensive. 'The thing is Lise, even if Colm _wasn't _keen on my being taken in by the police, don't forget, Colm works to his own agenda. And fuck knows what _that_ is. We know he's happy to see us _dead_, that's for sure. Anyway. We can't contact anyone while we're out here.'

Lisa was suddenly glad she'd at least left a message for her Dad. But she still had the problem of Charley.

'That's a shame,' she said in low tones. 'I was hoping to speak to Charley.'

'Well, you can't,' Jackson said flatly.

'I … I'm a little worried about her.' Lisa took a deep breath. _Better to come clean_. 'I tried to call her yesterday. But there was no reply,' she said quickly.

She couldn't see Jackson's face because he was in the process of levering himself off the bed, his back to her, so she couldn't gauge his reaction.

'I figured it would be fine if I made a call … or two … as the police won't be suspecting me … .'

Jackson swung round, his face puce with fury.

'You did what?' he yelled. He leapt on top of her, straddling her, one hand roughly grasping her throat. He shook her violently. 'I can't believe what you just said. You _called_ her? How? On your cellphone?'

She nodded dumbly, tears welling up in her eyes. She had rarely seen him look so angry.

'After I _specifically_ told you, _no cellphones_, no communications? How could you do this? Where? Where did you call from?'

'Once … once near Boston. The gas station. And … ,' Lisa could barely hold back the sobs which were choking her as she spoke. 'And, again, at the diner.'

Jackson paled. He pulled himself away from her, so that she could breathe more easily.

'The diner. Last night,' he said, with a heavy sigh.

Lisa nodded.

Jackson pushed a hand through his hair, eyes closed.

There was a tense silence as Lisa awaited his response. Even the softly falling snow seemed to have abated.

'You fucking stupid bitch,' he said between gritted teeth.

He finally looked at her, but the fierce anger had faded from his face, and instead, his look was more pitying. As if resigned to his burden.

He grabbed her arm, and dragged her out of the bedclothes, tightly clutching her to his body. 'You fucking stupid bitch,' he repeated, in unexpectedly gentle tones.

Then, to her surprise, he kissed her forcefully on the forehead, although he was still quivering with emotion. She stared at him, her eyes wet with pent-up tears.

'This means we have to leave. Now.' Jackson said. 'He'll be coming for us.'

'_He_?'

'Yes Lise. Colm.'

Lisa swallowed hard.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson hauled a heavy bag up from the basement. He descended again, returning through the trapdoor with a smaller, compact briefcase and headed for the front door of the cabin readying himself to lug these bags through the snow towards the car, which was parked beyond the trees. Before stepping out, he opened a drawer in the kitchenette, pulling out a gun and a knife in a holster, which he then attached to his waist.

'You never know,' he grimaced.

Lisa watched him trudging away from the cabin. His footsteps plodding, labored. The snowfall had been heavy overnight, blanching the landscape. She could hear the crunch of his shoes on the snow.

She was already dressed and wrapped up in her fur cloak. All she had to do was re-pack their food supplies which would take a few minutes at best.

She reclaimed the brown paper sack she had unpacked the food from just last night, and began to reload the bag with foodstuffs. She had decided to grab a few extra tins from the basement too, which was still open.

She could hear Jackson had returned behind her. The door was ajar, and the sound of his feet stomping on the snow, had drawn steadily closer.

He was breathing heavily.

Strangely.

A ripple of alarm trembled through her. She still had her back to the open door, and in that moment, she knew … .

She wheeled round, grabbing the nearest utensil to hand, which happened to be a fork.

The beige man from Lexington Avenue was standing in the doorway, a mocking sneer on his face.

Lisa didn't have time for fear.

Her instant reaction was to strike out. She lunged forwards, but the beige man snatched her wrist, painfully gripping her, pushing her down, towards the floor.

She writhed, desperately attempting to escape his grasp, now noting the knife in his hand.

She was about to scream for Jackson when a sudden rushing clamor hit the beige man sidewards. His grip on Lisa's wrist loosened and he fell heavily, his head crunching at an awkward angle against the wooden doorpost. His mouth gaped open in surprise, blood spurting profusely from his neck.

Lisa stepped backwards, to avoid being drenched, now seeing that a knife was embedded in the flesh below his ear.

Jackson crudely shoved the beige man's body to one side. He was panting.

'Right Lise … get out of here as fast as you can. Run to the car and lock yourself in,' he gabbled.

A dark form scuttling past the cabin window caught Lisa's eye.

'To your left,' she gasped. 'Someone's coming from the other side.'

Jackson instantly sped off in that direction.

Lisa was shaking now with adrenalin. She quickly scooped the bag of supplies into her arms and was about to step outside when a strong arm pushed her back indoors.

She tried to shriek, but her throat was clamped and dry. The bag of groceries slipped from her arms as she stumbled backwards.

Colm Buchanan, broad-chested and handsome, his eyes twinkling with merriment, kicked his associate's corpse aside, as he stepped over the threshold, into the cabin.

'Well, well. Look who we have here,' he said, a sly grin on his face. 'The lovely Lisa Reisert.'

'Get away from me,' she whimpered. She looked around her, frantically seeking a weapon of some sort, but Colm had advanced towards her, slamming the cabin door closed behind him.

'Jackson!' she screeched helplessly.

Colm clapped his hand over her mouth, his eyes glinting dangerously. She could feel his breath, hot and acrid, against her cheek. In her heightened state, his closeness, his breath, felt like it was scorching her skin.

'Your _boyfriend_ is a little too _preoccupied _to help out, Lisa,' Colm said smoothly. He encircled her with his arms, pulling her tight against him. So tight she could feel that he was aroused by their closeness.

Lisa tried to blink back the hot tears which were flowing fast, bathing her cheeks. She was angry at herself. Angry for this display of weakness.

Colm leered at her, seeming to enjoy her discomfort. He paddled his fingers down her face, gripping her jaw painfully, so that her mouth was pushed close to his own.

'You know what I'm going to do with you, don't you Lisa?' he smirked.

She screwed her eyes tightly shut, desperately trying to block out his face, his eyes which were boring into hers.

'Now … you can either fight me … or let me,' Colm said in cool tones. 'And if you're nice … I might not kill you.'

Lisa snorted. 'I somehow doubt that,' she croaked, her voice rasped and harsh. She dared to return his stare, summoning up as much courage and defiance as she could possibly muster.

Colm shook with anger, throwing her backwards with such force, she crumpled against the table behind her.

'The choice is yours Lisa. Just remember. Darling _James_ won't be coming to your rescue any time soon.'


	15. Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for all the reviews – very gratefully received!

This chapter is a bit of a rush-job – but I felt I had to get a chapter out to you as soon as I could, but had been away for most of last week, so finding any time to write was very tricky.

Just to add: I have now revised the number of chapters remaining in this fic from 20 to 18. So after this one, that's three to go. I realized I could be more succinct in telling the story, and have dropped a few scenes that might have been interesting, but not absolutely necessary. I'm in a slight hurry to finish off sometime soon as I am due to have a baby during September, which would well and truly grind this story to a halt!

Anyway, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing (applies to other chapters where I forgot to say this).

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Home Sweet Home**

Who the heck was _James_? Lisa thought, despite her fraught circumstances. Colm had to be speaking of Jackson. Who else could it be?

Her mind cast back briefly to the passport she had found in the hotel room at the Lux Atlantic. He had been called 'James Ryder.' So perhaps that was his real name? After all, Colm had known Jackson since they were at school together.

Any further ruminations were disrupted by Colm's overbearing presence, a malicious sneer on his face, as he clasped her throat in one hand. He closely watched her face, his eyes squinted to half-mast.

'I see you don't know as much about your boyfriend as you thought, eh?' he said in mocking tones.

Suddenly, three loud reports exploded into earshot. Lisa's heart pumped furiously inside her chest. _Please, not Jackson_, she begged silently.

Colm snickered. 'Oops,' he said. 'That sounds nasty.'

'I … I thought Jackson was your _friend_,' Lisa blurted, desperately trying to lever herself away from the table, where Colm had crudely pushed her. Desperate to stand tall.

'Or maybe friendship, trust and loyalty are anathema to the likes of you,' Lisa spat angrily, recalling Jackson's weighty sadness when he considered his friend's betrayal.

Her eyes darted left and right, seeking a means to escape.

Although she realized, of course, that Colm would be carrying a gun. And by the look on his face, he'd be only too willing to use it.

'The thing is Lisa. I have to protect my interests,' Colm said smoothly.

His nonchalance infuriated her.

'And how exactly does Jackson threaten your interests?'

'Because of _you_,' Colm said, enjoying the shocked bemusement which shone in her eyes.

'I don't get what you mean,' she breathed, seemingly transfixed by his taunting leer.

What had _she_ ever done to Colm? How was _she_ a threat to his plans to assassinate Keefe?

Sure, she could understand why _De Bowen_ had been suspicious of her relationship to Jackson. After all, Jackson was his future son-in-law.

But Colm?

'You see Alex told me that she had met this woman who reputedly saved Keefe's life in Miami. At some art event … your dear friend Charley's, no less,' he explained. 'I realized then that you and Jackson were associated in some way … otherwise, why didn't you create merry hell on earth when the guy who held you to ransom on a night flight and threatened to kill your father, suddenly showed up? I also knew he'd been to Miami since the failed attempt to kill Keefe, and I put two and two together.'

'So it was _you_ who told De Bowen?' Lisa asked, curling her lip in disgust.

Colm grinned. He raised his hand as if he was about to stroke her cheek. Lisa automatically flinched.

'I've always believed in keeping your enemies close,' Colm sniffed. 'But you and Jackson, _together_, were too close for comfort.' Colm smiled smugly. 'As for old man De Bowen. He was a wily old fox. He was half-way there already.'

Lisa could barely suppress the fierce anger brewing inside of her.

'So did you know that Talbot Haynes would be killed when they came for me? Did you?' Lisa screeched.

Colm sighed. 'Sometimes collateral damage is unavoidable.'

Lisa couldn't stand the sight of his condescending, toxic smile a moment longer. All she wanted was to vanquish him from her sight. To find Jackson. To help him.

She closed her eyes, and steeled herself. She charged into him, bellowing her rage, forcing her head upwards so that it struck his chin.

Colm was caught off-guard and stumbled backwards, but he soon recouped, again thrusting her into the table.

However, Lisa had now found sufficient space to raise her knee, ensuring that Colm fell awkwardly against her once he advanced towards her - which she knew he was going to do.

'You fucking bitch,' he cursed, bug-eyed with pain.

Lisa frantically reached behind her, hoping to grab something, anything more instantly effective than the fork she had earlier tucked into her sleeve, which she could then use as an impromptu weapon. But in so doing, she shunted the table backwards, so that they both almost fell to the floor.

She swiftly rolled aside, so that Colm crashed into the table leg, falling to his knees.

His face was puce with fury.

'You're going to regret this,' he sneered, swiping at her with his arm, and grabbing hold of her waist so that she was unable to scrabble away.

He then dragged her down to the floor with him. Lisa soon lay flat on her back, panting heavily.

He grinned, dramatically pulling a gun into view with his other hand, holding it above her.

'You'll damn well do what I say,' he yelled through gritted teeth. 'You hear me?'

Colm cocked the gun, poised to shoot at any given moment.

'I'll do whatever you want,' she whispered helplessly, thinking it might be better to play along for the time being.

Lisa had noticed that just a few foot behind her, the trapdoor to the basement was still open, but Colm's view of this was possibly obscured by the table.

It was her only chance.

If she could somehow slide inside and lock the door, she'd have guns and ammo at her disposal.

Slowly, she shuffled backwards towards the opening, keeping her eyes firmly trained on Colm's.

Colm exploded into laughter.

'You really think you can get away?' her cried, incredulous. 'I've got a loaded gun in my hand, for fuck's sake. It'll take me a single second to blow your brains out.'

'Good,' breathed Lisa. 'Sounds nice and quick.'

Colm pursed his lips, irritated by her defiance.

'You don't deserve _quick_,' and with that, he took hold of the table and clumsily hoisted himself to his feet, still directing the gun at Lisa.

He leaned over, about to grasp Lisa's wrist, to pull her into a standing position too, but she realized that this was her golden opportunity.

She still had the fork secreted up her sleeve. She now slid it into her hand and plunged it, with as much force as she could possibly muster, into Colm's groin, as he stood, legs astride, above her.

He screeched in agonized pain and tottered sideways, smashing into the table.

Lisa pulled herself into an upright position, grabbing his leg for leverage, ensuring he further lost his balance.

The table that had been supporting him, skidded away, and he plummeted backwards, losing his footing, as the gaping hole leading to the basement suddenly seemed to open out underneath him.

He stumbled and fell into the hole.

She could hear his gun falling down the stairs, bouncing from one step to the other.

'What the …?' he exclaimed in confusion, but Lisa had dashed forwards, seizing her chance, and proceeded to kick him, stamping on his hand which still clung to the top step, until his fingers were bruised and bloody.

Colm looked furious, gnashing his teeth in pain and anger. He repeatedly tried to grab at Lisa's ankle with his other hand. Lisa pushed the small dining table onto its side and brutally drove it forwards, smacking the hard wooden surface into Colm's jaw.

Colm looked a little dazed. He fell backwards, his mouth wide in surprise, swiftly followed by a hollow tumbling noise, and a nasty crunching sound as his body came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.

Lisa cringed at the noise, hoping that he had broken his neck.

She instantly sprang into action, leaping forwards to slam shut the trapdoor, firmly locking it.

Heart galloping wildly inside her chest, she ran towards the door, almost dizzy with the excess adrenaline surging through her body.

She could hear a faint groaning and a scuffling emanating from beyond the locked trapdoor.

'Damn,' she muttered. He was still alive.

She had to find Jackson. Had to get out of here. It could be minutes … moments even … before Colm retrieved his gun and shot his way out of the basement.

XXXXXXXXXX

Outside, there was no instant sign of Jackson's whereabouts, but she could see his footprints, heading along the length of the cabin, where they were soon joined by another set of tracks, both scooting into the direction of a clump of a trees just ten metres away.

Lisa ran towards the trees.

The tracks continued, deeper into the forest.

Before long, there was evidence of the tracks merging, as the path was scuffed and mashed, before the footprints, now closer together, led away from this spot; long skids leading to a trail of crimson blood staining the snow.

'Oh no,' Lisa gasped, a sickly feeling welling up inside of her.

She followed the tracks, tears blurring her vision, and soon emerged into a small clearing.

Here, she could see a body, slumped on the ground, encircled by blood, seeping into the surrounding snow.

'Please god no,' she wailed, advancing closer.

She almost fainted with relief when she saw that the man prone on the ground was wearing a long, gray mackintosh, his head bent to the ground.

It was Gerry Montana.

He was alive, clearly unable to move, but regarding her curiously.

Alarmed by a brief movement directly behind her, she spun around.

Jackson was holding a gun, which he had leveled at Montana.

He glimpsed at Lisa, but his pale, gaunt features barely flickered in recognition. His hot breath hung, vivid, tangible, in the sharp, cold air.

'Colm?' he croaked, never once tearing his gaze away from Montana.

'In the cabin,' she said. 'Alive.'

A wave of annoyance rippled across Jackson's face.

The snow had started to fall again. A soft, light flurry, feathering their faces, their hair.

'I have no quarrel with _you _Gerry, you know that, don't you?' Jackson said plainly to Montana.

Montana nodded, grimacing in pain. Lisa saw that he had been shot in the legs, and that there was another wound, somewhere on his torso, judging by the blood pooling in front of him and the fact that he was resting one hand inside his coat, as though trying to stem the flow of blood.

'But … I can't let you follow us,' Jackson continued, almost apologetically Lisa thought. 'We need your car.'

Montana cleared his throat, straining to speak.

His voice was low, barely higher than a whisper.

'The other guy … not Colm ….' His eyes were dim with pain and loss of blood.

Lisa felt a surge of unbidden anguish rise up inside of her.

Jackson placed his hand on her arm, leading her away. They walked backwards.

Lisa watched Montana watching _them_ as they left. Slowly his head sank to the ground, the snow wafting slowly across his form.

Jackson and Lisa ran back along the path she had followed to reach the clearing.

Jackson pulled the sedan car keys from his pocket and slammed them into Lisa's hand.

'I'll get the other set,' he said, running towards the cabin which was now in view. 'If I'm not back in five, just get the hell out of here.'

Lisa trudged towards the Chrysler, which was steeped in snow. The trunk was open, and the bags Jackson had been loading into the car were standing guard by the back tires.

She hoisted the bags into the trunk and banged it shut.

In the distance she could hear a rally of gunshots.

They came from the cabin.

The queasy fear which had gripped her earlier immediately returned.

She heard footsteps tramping heavily towards her, teamed with harsh, ragged breathing.

Jackson came flying towards the Chrysler, throwing a fresh bunch of keys in her direction.

Shocked into action she caught them, realizing that these belonged to another vehicle.

'Get into the car,' Jackson yelled, snatching the sedan keys from her hand.

'Colm's gone and found my fucking arsenal,' he snarled furiously.

He slammed the key into the ignition slot, and revved the car into a terrifying fervour.

'What are you doing just standing there?' he shouted, his clear, blue eyes bulging impatiently.

Lisa dived into the car. Jackson kicked the gas pedal, the car leaping into action before Lisa had even found time to close the door.

The Chrysler bumped its way along the snowbound path for a few hundred metres before encountering a hulking black BMW X5 SUV, parked up on the verge.

'You got the keys?' Jackson said.

'Yes,' Lisa said tremulously.

'I'll follow you,' he said.

Lisa paused momentarily, gathering her thoughts, before snapping into action.

XXXXXXXXXX

She could do this. Of course she could, Lisa thought.

She stilled her hands from shaking, so that she could slot the correct key into the ignition.

She gazed at her hand, a puzzled expression on her face, as she noticed her fingers were stained with sticky blood.

Was it _her_ blood? Had she been wounded in some way?

She then realized, with sickly certainty, that it had to be the beige man's blood.

She soon found, to her relief, that the BMW was a sturdy, efficient vehicle to navigate through the snow, and the route was pretty straightforward, clearly defined by tire tracks.

In comparison, she could see Jackson's sedan sliding and slipping dangerously behind her, even though driving conditions had probably eased a little compared to last night.

It was as well. They needed to get out of this forest and as far away as humanly possible, and as quickly as possible.

They could be certain that Colm would have escaped from the basement by now.

A small part of her now wished that she had somehow killed him before quitting the cabin. She imagined, in lurid detail, driving that fork into his neck rather than his groin. Watching his face convulsed with fear, deadly spasms shaking his body.

She gripped the steering wheel, disturbingly enervated by this deadly fantasy.

What the hell was she doing? Since when had she become so darned bloodthirsty?

Simple, she thought. It was a question of self-defense. She hadn't felt an iota of remorse for the assassin she had mowed down outside her Dad's property in Miami, all those months ago.

And she would have killed Jackson too. If she'd had to.

Her blood ran cold at the thought.

She didn't have much time for further ruminations as they fast approached the main road. She noted in her mirrors that Jackson was flashing his headlights, urging her to pull over.

She parked up close to the exit and waited for him to skid the sedan to a crunching halt alongside her.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson instantly jumped out of the Chrysler, opened the trunk, and pulled out the heavy bags she had placed inside earlier. He threw the bags into the BMW X5.

Lisa opened the driver's door.

'I'd better go dump this,' Jackson said, gesturing towards the Chrysler.

'Can I come with you?' Lisa asked, shivering with cold and unwilling to be left alone.

Jackson paused, eyeing her strangely. 'I'll be quick as I can,' he said.

Then, to her surprise, he pulled her roughly towards him, embracing her tightly.

'God, I'm so sorry,' he murmured. He pressed his warm lips to her neck.

'Don't be,' Lisa said. 'This was _my_ fault. Completely and utterly.'

She encircled him with her arms.

'No Lisa. I pulled you into this mess from the start,' Jackson replied. He sighed deeply, pulling her even closer.

She rested her head on his chest, eyes closed, relishing his warmth and solidity.

And for that brief moment, she felt it had all been worth it.

XXXXXXXXXX

'So where are we headed?' Lisa asked, once they were back on-road, safely esconced in the BMW. 'Should we cross the border? It's not far from here, is it?'

Jackson vehemently shook his head. 'No way. Certainly not the _official_ border.'

As they passed last night's diner, Lisa felt a pang of guilt. Why had she made those calls? What had possessed her?

'I'm thinking Colm will be on our tails within the next hour or so,' Jackson said.

'You think there's a tracking device in the car?' Lisa asked, astonished that they had taken the vehicle, if that was the case.

Jackson shook his head. 'Unlikely. But Colm will call in assistance. And he'll soon realize we have their Beamer.'

'So, we should get as far away from here as possible,' Lisa urged.

However, one quick glance at Jackson's face, his lips pursed, brow creased in concentration, and she soon saw that this was maybe not his first consideration.

'I'm not so sure,' he muttered. 'I have another idea. It might do for tonight at any rate.'

XXXXXXXXXX

They drove for a further one hundred and fifty miles or so, passing various settlements en route. They first headed South then East, towards the coast, stopping just the once for fuel and some food.

Here, the weather was slightly less inclement. The snow had abated long ago, but the skies were washed gray, and a gusty wind was swirling ferociously, whipping the trees and the hedgerows they passed, into a rustling frenzy.

They had decided _not _to listen to the radio, almost by mutual, silent consent. They knew any news would be bad news.

Better just to get on with it.

'Why did you let Montana live?' Lisa finally asked. Conversation had skirted this issue, focusing more on what had happened with Colm. And what Jackson figured Colm might do next.

Lisa had been surprised that Jackson hadn't straight out finished Montana. She had assumed Jackson to be a lot more _clinical_ in dealing with those he felt had wronged him.

'You think I should have killed him?' Jackson asked in return, a note of surprise in his voice.

Lisa flushed red. She hadn't meant to sound so bloodthirsty.

And she couldn't help but recall, that without Montana's calm dissuasion of Mr Beige in New York, they would never have gotten out of the city in the first place.

Sure, he hadn't wanted to attract undue attention from passersby, and possibly the cops too, but his cool-headedness had saved their bacon.

'On the contrary,' Lisa said. 'I rather hope he survives,' she added in a still, small voice.

She didn't like the idea of Montana, indeed _anyone_, slowly bleeding to death, with no help to hand.

Jackson smiled at her. He reached over and squeezed her hand tightly in his own, before returning it to the steering wheel.

'You'd make a terrible assassin,' he chuckled.

'Well. That's fine by me,' she said cheerily, somehow reassured from Jackson's response that Montana would probably survive.

There was something else that had been bugging her.

'Colm called you _James_,' she said pointedly.

Jackson's face broke out into a wide smile.

'Did he indeed?' he said. 'That's really rather touching.'

Lisa was puzzled by his reaction. He shot her a quick glance.

'It _is _my name,' he said. 'But you know that already.'

'The passport,' she said coolly.

'It kind of helps having multiple identities in my line of work,' Jackson snickered. 'And in my case, I really _do_ have two.'

'How so?'

'I was born a Ryder,' he explained. 'But adopted by Rippners. I was very young at the time.'

'And your original parents?'

'Dead of course. A traffic accident.'

'I'm sorry,' Lisa said, her voice brimming with sympathy.

Jackson laughed mirthlessly. 'It's alright Lisa. It's not like I knew them.'

'So … who was Henry Beauchamp?' Lisa asked curiously.

'Ah yes. The plot thickens,' Jackson said. 'Good old Uncle Henry,' he said between gritted teeth.

'You really want to know this stuff?' he asked her, a bemused look on his face.

'You bet,' Lisa said. 'I'm ashamed I ever thought _my_ family was complicated, when the worst that ever happened was my parents got a divorce!'

'OK. Well Uncle Henry was my real father's older brother. British.'

'Head of Beauchamps.'

'That's right. But he took on the name Beauchamp as an affectation. The original Beauchamp line died out yonks ago.'

'You know there's a _Graham_ Ryder working at Beauchamps' London office?' she said.

'Nothing to do with me. At least not to my knowledge anyway,' Jackson replied. 'But I do have a snotty cousin. Edwin Ryder. He inherited the company and then proceeded to sell it off, piece by piece,' he added.

'And is he one of your … _cogs_?' Lisa asked tentatively, hoping to trigger Jackson's memory, back to when he called De Bowen a cog in a very big wheel … a _network_, as he had put it, of ruthless individuals dead set on manipulating the world to their liking.

Jackson burst into loud laughter. 'Edwin? Fuck no. He's not that _interesting_. He simply sold the company off, and now it has been well and truly split up, and is owned by a variety of different interests who use its name as a _cover _for their own activities.' He paused. 'Not _all_ nefarious I might add. There are still real-life links to the world of finance too.'

He looked at her intently. 'It's not that unusual you know. There's a lot of Beauchamps out there, believe me.'

Rather chillingly, she did.

XXXXXXXXXX

Before long, the vast silvery expanse of the Atlantic, tossed and torn into myriad frothing white cornets, by the fierce winds, swung into view.

They were approaching a small seaside resort, as hailed by a roadside sign welcoming them to Cutter Cove.

There was a decidedly Anglicized feel to the town, which was really little more than a village, comprising a sprinkling of white clapboard houses, a single shopping street, and a tiny harbor, populated by a host of fishing boats, currently being smashed mercilessly against a short wooden jetty, by high, seething waves.

The town looked to be closed down. Shops and businesses were boarded up. Curtains were drawn, shutters tightly shut, blanking out any sign of life.

Cutter Cove was strangely devoid of cars, ensuring a solitary drive through the town, and out onto a similarly desolate highway, which soon swung away from the shore, heading into a low range of heavily wooded hills.

They passed a modest, white wooden church, where Jackson swerved left onto a narrow, dusty road, bordered by grassy fields which Lisa imagined were usually home to grazing livestock – no doubt driven indoors by the stormy conditions.

'This is where I was brought up,' Jackson said suddenly.

Somehow Lisa already knew this. She didn't know how. Just an instinct.

She also knew he didn't like where he was at all, judging by his clenched jaw and the pallor of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.

'And here's where I lived,' Jackson said, stopping the SUV outside of a dark wooden house. 'Home sweet home,' he said, his voice laced with irony.

'I thought you schooled in England?' Lisa said.

'From my teens onwards,' he said. 'Before then. I was here.'

The gate was closed, even though there was a silver Subaru Forester parked on the driveway.

Lisa noted there was a large, shabby barn building, a hundred feet away from the house.

'That's where we're going to put up for the night,' Jackson said, following her gaze with his own.

Lisa pulled a face at the darkening clouds and recalled the choppy sea, indicating a storm was fast brewing.

Sure, they needed to find shelter. But in a barn?

Plus, the place was clearly inhabited.

Jackson seemed to be reading her thoughts. 'There's no one here,' he said. 'It's only really used during Summer vacation.'

'How do _you_ know?'

'Because I know who I sold it to. A nice family. From Boston.'

'OK,' Lisa said, figuring that this house must have once belonged to Jackson's parents – likely his adopted parents, the Rippners - who had clearly left it to him in their will.

She cursorily remembered that Jackson had once told her he'd actually _killed _them. But that was clearly a tasteless joke.

Or at least she hoped it was.

'So would this _nice_ family from Boston mind if we stayed in the house itself? We're in for a humdinger of a storm. Believe me. I'm from Florida. I know these things,' Lisa continued.

Jackson's eyes flicked to the house and then back to Lisa's expectant face. There was a guarded expression in his eyes which unnerved her.

Was it fear? Certainly, apprehension of some sort.

Maybe he _did_ kill his parents? came a small, unbidden voice inside her head. She trembled a little.

The house itself was one-storey. Peeling brown wood. Low-slung. Almost menacing. It exuded a dark, brooding air. As though they were being watched by its blank, featureless windows.

'I'll get the gate,' she said quickly, jumping down from the BMW and opening the gate.

Jackson drove straight into the barn.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The barn was large and spacious, and surprisingly hospitable, Lisa realized. It hadn't been used as a farming barn for many years, she decided.

Instead, the space was used, she surmised, as a place to store household and gardening equipment, but also as something of a hideaway, judging by a moth-eaten couch and a pile of blankets and cushions ranged against one wall.

Maybe Mr Nice-Family-Man from Boston would come out here and down a few beers, earning himself some peace and quiet, as suggested by a long line of empty _Bud _bottles, stretching almost the length of the wall.

Jackson immediately checked out the bottles to see that they were all empty. He pulled a disappointed face and slumped onto the couch.

Lisa joined him.

'I could do with some food,' she griped, aware that her stomach was grumbling. It had been a long time since they ate.

'Maybe I should see if there's anything to eat in the house?' she asked tentatively.

'Maybe,' Jackson said. He didn't look at her. There was a dark expression on his face that she didn't like. He tightly screwed up his eyes, seeming to focus intently on a stack of cushions a few feet away from them.

Suddenly he pulled a gun from his pocket and decimated the cushions, with an explosive rally of bullets.

The cushions erupted into a mound of white fluff, which scattered across the floor, clogging the air.

Lisa squealed in shock.

'What the fuck are you doing?' she shrilled, flinging herself into the furthest corner of the couch, as far away from Jackson as possible.

'There was a spider,' Jackson muttered menacingly.

His eyes were glacially cold as he spoke.

'You … you don't like spiders?' Lisa asked, her voice shaking. What was it with this place? With him? Maybe coming here had been a bad idea.

'I hate the fuckers,' Jackson said venomously.

Lisa froze. Something in his voice chilled her.

'So … Jackson. I take it you weren't happy here,' Lisa said cautiously.

He smirked. 'It wasn't the best of childhoods. But I don't want to bore you with the details.'

'You wouldn't be boring me,' she said sincerely.

'OK. I don't want to frighten you then.'

'You wouldn't,' she insisted. She reached out a hand, and gently laid the tips of her fingers on his arm. But he recoiled at her touch, allowing her fingers to fall away.

He looked at her, a regretful sneer on his face.

'Some places Lise, are truly _evil_. You know that?' he said.

Lisa frowned. 'I can believe that of some _people_. But a house is just a house.'

He smiled, an odd, twisted smile, which slightly scared her. There was a dark gleam in his eyes.

'Don't you think a place absorbs the memories, the energies of the past?' he asked in hushed tones, almost as though he didn't want their conversation to be overheard. Even though there was no one around.

'Frankly Jackson, I'm surprised someone like _you _could possibly think like that. You seem too … prosaic, hard-headed, to believe in such fanciful crap.'

Lisa tried to smile, and failed.

The rain was now beating down on the barn roof, and the light was dimming. Not a pleasant combination at this moment in time, Lisa thought with a shudder. The wind was picking up too. There was a distant creaking noise, courtesy of the increasingly powerful gusts which were whistling around the barn.

Jackson didn't answer. He turned away and continued to stare, a glazed expression on his face, at the foamy mess which was all that remained of the cushions he had shot at.

'Why did we come to this place?' Lisa asked, 'if you hate it so much.'

'Because Lisa, it's the absolutely last place anyone would come looking for me,' Jackson said darkly. 'Anyone who knows anything about me, that is.'

They sat in silence for some time before Jackson eventually spoke.

'My parents _died_ here … you realize that, don't you?' he said.

Lisa nodded mutely. Her eyes urged him to go on.

'As you know. They … the Rippners …. weren't my _real_ parents,' he added, emphasizing this point. 'But _I_ didn't know that at the time. Not until my Uncle Henry took me to England.'

She could sense there was something large. Something unfathomable that he hadn't yet told her.

Somehow, Lisa was dimly aware what it was.

The ghastly thing that had happened here. And she _knew_ it was ghastly.

It was only an instinct, a hunch, but she felt strangely sure she was right.

She could see it in Jackson's haunted face, the dark lines etched under his eyes. He seemed to have sagged, to have aged many years in the short time they had been curled up on this solitary couch in this old, echoing barn, which was increasingly falling into dusky shadow.

As much as she desperately wanted Jackson to tell her what had happened, it didn't look like he wanted to talk further.

At least not now.

She sighed.

'Jackson?' Lisa said. 'I'm going to try and get inside the house. Find us some food. What … what's the best way?'

Now that Jackson had sunk back into a blank, miserable silence, she had a sudden desire to steer clear of him. And the roaring winds raging around the barn were doing little to encourage her to stay.

'There's a key … behind the drainpipe. Close to the back door,' Jackson said, his eyes fixed still on the exploded cushions.

'How do you know that?' Lisa asked, surprised.

'It's mine,' he said simply.

She flung herself off the couch, rapidly making for the exit.

'Check to see if there's any spare car keys, would you?' Jackson called after her. 'We might as well swap cars while we have the chance.'

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa was glad to temporarily escape Jackson, despite the onslaught of hard, cold rain falling from the skies, as she crossed the garden towards the house.

The house key was easily found. It was a small Yale key, half-covered by moss, snuck behind a drainpipe – just as Jackson had said.

Clearly the nice family from Boston had never thought it necessary to change the locks, and moments later she was inside.

XXXXXXXXXX

There was something about this place which unnerved her.

She experienced a sudden, searing sympathy for Jackson's dark mood.

Thankfully they were only staying the one night.

Once inside the house, the nice family from Boston didn't seem so nice after all. She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to come to this place for a _vacation_.

The décor clearly hadn't been altered for many years. Peeling wallpaper and chipped paintwork predominated, and the fixtures and fittings were clunky and old-fashioned.

Almost frozen in time.

There was a sombre air pervading the house, as she moved from the hallway, into a small living room, and then into the kitchen, which had a wide window, looking out onto an unkempt stretch of land beyond.

The insistent drumming of the thunderous rain outside, and the fearsome clouds looming overhead did nothing to relieve the pervasively gloomy atmosphere.

Jackson was right. The barn was a damn sight more welcoming.

She was here to find food – if any was available.

She pulled open all the cupboard doors, fighting off the uncanny feeling that she was somehow being watched from behind. Yet whenever she swung round to look, her heart thumping at a rapid rate, there was no one in sight.

It was this house. It made her uneasy. This room in particular.

She had a nagging sensation that she couldn't quite explain to herself in terms that were either rational or logical. But she felt sure that Jackson's parents had died unnaturally. Here. In this house.

Maybe even in this kitchen.

Something sudden. Probably traumatic, which had changed the course of Jackson's life. Coaxing his sinister Uncle Henry – he had to be sinister, surely, seeing as he was a one-time friend of De Bowen's – to come into his life, to whisk him away to England.

That would explain Jackson's belief that no one would expect him to ever return here. Willingly.

After all. Would a child who had witnessed something they shouldn't … something 'evil' as Jackson had inferred … want to return to the site of their fears?

She speeded up her hunt for food, actually wanting to get back to the barn as soon as she could. To get back to Jackson.

After perusing all the kitchen units she had discovered that there was hardly anything worth eating. A tin of sweetcorn. A hardened chorizo. Slightly more interesting was a value pack of potato chips and a tin of shortbread biscuits. She ripped off the lid, and plunged her hand inside. They were perhaps a little too soft and crumbly, and certainly tasted on the stale side. But they'd do.

She had better luck in finding some bottles of _Budweiser_ which Mr Nice-Family-Man from Boston hadn't yet secreted to the barn.

She looked for a bag of some sort to load up with supplies to take with her.

She looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink and found a scrunched-up plastic bag.

Again, she had that distinct feeling, like a cold prickling across her skin, that someone was watching her.

She could barely breath.

Suddenly there was a loud rattling clamor at the back door, shocking her into a terrified whimper.

She shot into the hallway, glad to leave the kitchen behind. She could see a shadowy figure waiting at the door, barely visible through a frosted glass central panel.

Her heart was pumping so violently, her chest almost hurt.

'Lisa!' came Jackson's voice.

She almost melted with relief, her knees trembling beneath her. She flattened herself against the wall, the faded floral wallpaper damp against her blouse.

'Lisa! Open up! It's important,' Jackson yelled.

She flung the door open, and he half-fell inside.

His clear blue eyes were lurid, staring.

'Put the TV on,' he gasped, his voice half-strangled with panic.

Lisa raced to the living room where she had seen a TV set. She plugged the TV in, and switched it on.

Jackson grabbed a remote control from a side table and began flicking feverishly through the channels.

'What is it?' she groaned, although she could guess.

Except.

Except she couldn't. What she was to discover had actually been too horrible to truly contemplate.

Jackson had found a news channel, and staring out at her was the face of Charley. A photo taken a few years back, when her hair was a little longer, a slightly softer frame to her strident features.

The clipped, nasal tones of the striking blond newsreader intoned the tragic news with cold clarity.

Promising young artist Charley Robinson had been found dead in her Manhattan apartment. And police were treating her death as 'suspicious.'

Lisa felt light-headed. She staggered backwards, glad to have Jackson directly behind her to break her fall. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and led her to the sofa.

'I heard the news on the car radio,' Jackson said, almost whispering in her ear. 'I thought it best to try and … _catch up_ … while you were gone.'

She gulped back the tears, aware of a whining hysterical wailing, somewhere, deep inside her head.

'I'm so sorry,' he said in gruff tones. He kissed her hair, cradling her face in his hands.

'Did … did they mention De Bowen?' she asked huskily.

Better to know the full horror of their situation.

'Oh yes,' he said with a weary grimace. '_And_ Talbot Haynes. Keep on watching and it's bound to come up. His murder's being spun as an _execution_, I think … a deliberate attack on the Keefe campaign's tough stance on gangland crime. _Apparently_.'

'Really?' Lisa asked, half-startled, half-admiring at the campaign's ingenuity.

Jackson nodded. 'That's politics for you,' he muttered morosely.

'It makes our job easier too,' Lisa said, almost ashamed at this burst of blatant callousness which was currently overriding the sharp, stabbing sensation in her breast ... the sorrowful realization that her dear friend was dead. Murdered. And that it was _her_ fault.

They couldn't allow anyone else innocent to die. They simply couldn't.

'What job?' Jackson asked quizzically.

'Well. If Keefe and his campaign are already feeling _threatened_, then maybe they'll be more willing to hear that _one of their own_ is actually an assassin, ' she suggested. 'We can trade that information, and perhaps more, for our … for _your_ safety. Surely the Department of Homeland Security can offer us some form of protection?'

'You really think so?' Jackson asked sceptically.

'It's our only hope,' Lisa said ardently.

And sadly, she really did believe this too.


	16. Fight or Flight

**Author's Note:** Finally another chapter. Many apologies for the delay in updating. Lots of real life stuff that I won't bore you with, plus the US Open (am a sucker for tennis), and another unavoidable writing project, to add to the numerous deadlines heading my way. No baby yet. But is due.

This was originally one HUGE chapter, which I realized should be split into two halves. The only problem is that this chapter is now a bit too 'talky' for my liking – but it serves a purpose. Big decisions are made which affect the remaining narrative.

Having said before that there would be 18 chapters in all, I am now switching back to 20 – which means four more chapters after this one - lots of action, plot and a twist or two (although I bet a lot of you are putting together some of the pieces by now).

Anyway, take care and happy reading.

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Fight or Flight**

After many hours of watching rolling news coverage, Lisa was surprised to find out that George De Bowen's sudden death was attracting less attention than she had expected.

_The network_, she thought wryly. _Had to be. Covering their tracks._

After all, there had notably been no mention of De Bowen's henchmen, Brody and Kimble, who had also been slain on that fateful night in De Bowen's apartment.

Meanwhile Talbot's demise was being discussed in most depth, by political pundits, of all people, on CNN, debating the effects of his untimely demise and the subsequent police investigation on Keefe's campaign to be president.

Oddly it seemed to be _Charley's_ murder which had attracted the most mainstream media attention, in large part because of her recent successes in the art world. It didn't surprise Lisa to discover that Charley had so many friends and acquaintances. And that her untimely death had prompted such genuine grief in so many quarters.

There was precious little detail about her death, beyond the basic facts. Her body had been discovered that morning by a friend. She had been dead for almost twenty-four hours, which Lisa realized meant she had been killed that same morning that herself and Jackson had fled New York.

With a cold shudder, Lisa concluded that Colm had probably killed her soon after she had spoken to Lisa on the telephone.

Similarly disturbing was the thought that all these killings were inter-connected. She couldn't help but wonder how long it would take the police to realize this.

Jackson had watched the news for some time, huddled against her on the threadbare sofa in the living room, gently stroking her back. But he had soon fallen asleep, which surprised her, in view of his suspicious fear of this place.

He must have been exhausted.

She didn't dare disturb him. He looked so peaceful, and he clearly needed the rest.

So did she. But there was a tumult of worries, fears and a constant whine of guilt-ridden grief, thrumming through her mind.

Desperate for a drink, Lisa braved the kitchen. There was no way she could enter without putting the light on, even though she knew Jackson would rather they operated in the dark, to ensure they did not attract unwarranted attention.

Even with the chill, fluorescent lighting, there was still something shadowy about this place. She shrugged off her fears, which were unfounded and frankly juvenile.

She put the kettle on, and leaned against the sink unit, arms folded, back to the window, listening to the faint bubbling of the water as it gradually came to the boil.

She inhaled deeply. Trying to relax.

_See. There was no reason for fear. It was all in the mind._

Or rather in Jackson's mind, and he'd somehow transmitted it to her. Infected her with his own dark thoughts and memories.

Even so, a stab of anxiety shot through her, unbidden. And she swung round to gaze outside, out of the window, where it was pitch black, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

She half-expected to see a face suddenly pressed against the glass, peering at her.

She saw the kitchen reflected in the window, still and empty.

But then a brief movement in the doorway, alerted her to the presence of a long, lean figure.

The light cut to blackness.

Lisa felt sick with fear. She clapped her hands to her mouth, to stop herself from screaming.

'Jackson?' she asked, in tremulous tones.

Any answer was muffled by the kettle, exploding into life, the boiling water frothing and fizzing. Lisa fumbled for the OFF switch on the kettle.

Jackson was soon at her side.

'I saw the light,' he said, by way of explanation.

'You scared the life out of me,' she muttered angrily. 'I need light to make myself a coffee, if you don't mind.'

Jackson moved away. She could hear him rummaging through drawers. He finally halted, slamming a drawer shut, and moments later, she heard the harsh lick of a match being struck, and Jackson's face emerged from the darkness, flickering in the pale, orange match light.

She had time only to grab a mug and the coffee jar from a cupboard, before they were plunged again into darkness. He lit another match.

'Come on Lise,' he growled. 'We haven't got all day.'

Lisa slopped hot water over a smattering of dark instant coffee granules, coating the bottom of her mug.

'Did you want anything?' she asked.

The match faded, accompanied by a sharp curse from Jackson. Clearly he'd allowed the match to burn down to his fingers.

'I'm fine. Let's get out of here,' he grumbled.

XXXXXXXXXX

Now that they were back in the relatively safe confines of the living room, with the TV for company, she had to say something.

'I don't believe in ghosts, or things that go bump in the night,' Lisa said emphatically, 'but there's something darned creepy about that kitchen.'

She gulped back her hot coffee, glad of its fragrant warmth.

Jackson pursed his lips. His eyes large and gleaming in the moving white light emitted by the TV set, shadowy and veiled the next, as the pictures shifted from one scene to another.

'Well. Maybe the fact the place _scares_ you, proves you _do _believe in them, after all,' he said bluntly.

'I'm not scared,' she said. 'Just …. Unnerved. Jumpy.'

There was a long, awkward pause, broken eventually by Jackson's cool tones, prefaced by an unmistakable sigh.

'The kitchen's where I found them.'

Lisa instantly knew he was referring to his parents.

'Mom had been shot in the head,' he said icily.

'Jesus,' Lisa murmured. _No wonder he hated the place._

'_He _was still alive. But only just.'

Lisa couldn't help but notice the venom in Jackson's voice when he mentioned his father … or the man who he had _thought _was his father.

Yes. There was definitely a glint of anger, or was it remorse, in his eyes. But Lisa was unable to study him further, as his attention immediately switched to the TV, seemingly mesmerized by the newsreader.

'Who … who killed them?' she asked, a little anxious about this answer. She recalled with chilling clarity, how he had once joked that _he _had killed his parents.

Jackson didn't reply at first. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the sofa.

'Apparently they had enemies,' he said finally. '_He_ had been involved in some pretty vile, thuggish stuff, when they'd lived in New York, before they moved to Maine.'

Lisa hazarded a guess that Jackson wasn't too surprised about his adopted father's past.

'And it finally caught up with him,' he smirked. 'Well. _Them_,' he added, his voice softening.

He'd liked his Mom, Lisa thought.

'So. It was a hit,' she said.

Jackson nodded. Then he looked at her.

There was something deeply intense and raw in that single gaze. She felt the breath in her throat hitch at the unexpected sadness she saw in his face.

'I could have saved him you know. He'd been stabbed. Repeatedly. But one quick phone call might have made a difference. But I … I left him instead. Sprawled across the kitchen table,' Jackson said. 'He bled to death.'

'You were just a child. You didn't know what you were doing,' Lisa said, instantly closing the gap between them on the sofa. She placed her coffee cup on the floor, then nestled against him, grabbing his hands, and cradling them in her own.

'Believe me Lise. I was ten years old and I knew _exactly_ what I was doing,' Jackson sneered. 'I didn't like the man. Never did. And in that instant, I blamed him for what had happened to Molly.'

Lisa guessed that Molly was 'Mom.'

'Of course, the irony of it all, is I became an assassin myself,' Jackson said.

'A manager,' Lisa corrected.

'Oh Lise, I hope you haven't deluded yourself here. You _become _a manager.' He turned his hands over in his lap so that they were resting on top of hers. 'These hands are very bloody indeed.'

'But … you're a better man than that Jackson. You do know that, don't you?' Lisa whispered.

Jackson narrowed his eyes curiously. Almost as though he was seeing Lisa for the first time.

She waited for an answer, soon realizing that there wasn't going to be one. Not now, at any rate.

She pulled her hands away from his lap, and folded her arms tightly against her chest. She lolled wearily against Jackson's shoulder, eyes fixed on the TV screen. Gradually her eyes slid shut, overcome with a sudden wave of tiredness, and she drifted into sleep.

XXXXXXXXXX

Jackson had insisted they leave as soon as dawn broke. They took the Subaru, leaving Colm's BMW in the barn.

Lisa was surprised at the minor devastation wreaked the night before by the storm. More than she had expected. Clearly the storm would have put paid to any hopes of Jackson's to spend the night in the barn.

Of course it was nothing on the scale of a full-blown hurricane. Far from it. But from the state of it, Cutters Cove had certainly suffered a fair degree of damage from high-speed winds. Yet again, the main street was deserted, the only difference being that the sidewalks were littered with broken glass and strewn with trash.

'This place is kind of creepy,' Lisa said in hushed tones.

Jackson sneered. 'I never liked it. I was only too happy when my Uncle Henry moved me away.'

XXXXXXXXXX

They drove in silence for an hour or so, finally pulling into a small coastal town, no bigger than diminutive Cutters Cove. The sea was as wild and churned as it had been yesterday, and the winds were still hugely forceful. So fierce, Jackson had to battle to edge himself out of the Subaru, to grab a paper from a vending machine.

He was panting when he returned, his cheeks pink, his dark hair ruffled into a Gothic punk frenzy by the unforgiving winds.

Lisa couldn't help but giggle.

Jackson refused to look at her, but his mouth was slightly tilted into what could have been a smile, had he not then found himself looking at a sizable studio portrait of Charley, smiling and vivacious, featured prominently in the news pages.

'You know what Lisa,' he said softly. 'I'm really, truly sorry. I didn't think she'd be in any immediate danger. I don't understand why this has happened.'

Lisa wanted to say it was alright. To reassure him. But if truth be told, there was a small but insistently nagging part of her that agreed with him. He had been stupid and trusting, for some unaccountable reason, rigidly sticking to what he perceived to be a certain protocol, a form of etiquette in his dirty line of work, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Brody killing Talbot Haynes being a case in point.

And now her dear friend. Lovable, gregarious Charley. She had paid the price for it.

She blinked back tears, scooting closer to Jackson to read what the article said about her.

The first most shocking piece of information was her manner of death, which bore all the hallmarks of a frenzied knife attack. She had imagined Colm to be a clean, no-nonsense killer. A swift bullet to the brain.

Police reports suggested that there had been a prolonged struggle.

This didn't surprise Lisa. Not one jot. She even felt a surge of bitter pride on Charley's behalf, despite the ghastliness of the situation. And an all-consuming hatred of Colm. She clenched her fists into tight, angry little balls and ground her teeth together in rage, fervently wishing she had jammed that fork deep into his eye.

She took a deep calming breath and forced herself to continue reading the article, and was immediately roused from her darkly murderous fantasy, by further heart-stopping information, which came a few paragraphs later.

The deep frown on Jackson's face suggested to her that he was sharing her anxiety at the news that police were now seeking a 'Lisa Reisert' who had been vacationing in New York with Charley, and was now viewed as a missing person.

'I should notify the police. Tell them I'm OK,' Lisa breathed. 'Poor Dad'll be scared out of his wits.'

Jackson let the newspaper fall onto his lap.

'I don't want to keep you with me against your will, you know that, don't you?' he said, his piercing blue eyes intently scrutinizing her face. 'But you do realize the police will link you and Charley to the Haynes case. It's inevitable. You were all together the night Talbot died, and on the eve of Charley's murder.'

'As was Colm,' Lisa said pointedly. 'The only difference being, of course, at the moment _he_ can say what the hell he likes, because _he_'s not in hiding. Colm can present himself as a credible witness. And as I very much doubt Charley ever made it to the Sheraton to check me out, it'll simply look like I've gone AWOL. I've no choice but to prove otherwise.'

Jackson chewed his lip thoughtfully.

'If you want to reassure your folks that you're still alive, then yes, there's a strong argument for your going to the police,' he said finally. 'Maybe you should have gone to them the night I killed De Bowen after all,' he added ruefully. 'There was nothing to link you with _that_ case. And you now know _much_ more that could hurt you, than you did back then.'

He didn't have to mention Colm by name, but his presence persisted as a dark spectral shadow between them. Even this veiled reference sent an acute anxiety shuddering through her.

'Except if I go to the police alone, that does nothing to help you,' Lisa said, unable to suppress the sigh which heaved through her.

'And just how, exactly, does your potentially becoming a police suspect for double murder help me Lisa?' Jackson asked. 'Because as you know, if you _don't _show up soon, it's gonna look mighty suspicious. One way or another.'

'Oh for sure,' Lisa agreed. 'But I'm scared Jackson. Because without your protection I'd make a damned easy target for Colm, don't you think? I know way too much.' Lisa said. 'And I kind of doubt the police would believe me if I told them the truth about Colm – not without substantive evidence. Not without _you_.'

Jackson didn't answer, seemingly lost in thought.

'Hey. Are you hungry?' he finally asked, folding the newspaper away before stowing it in the dashboard's glove compartment. 'Let's find some place to eat and we can talk this through.'

XXXXXXXXXXX

They drove on for a few miles, soon encountering a small, scrappy-looking roadside café, constructed out of dark wooden timbers. The place was deserted, bar a red pickup truck parked close to the diner, as most traffic seemed to have been deterred by the dangerously windy driving conditions.

Jackson checked out the café first before beckoning Lisa indoors.

She fought against the swirling winds, glad to get inside.

Jackson ordered two coffees and two plates of eggs and toast from a sour-faced, rather dingy-looking waitress.

She brought them their coffees then scuttled away to fetch their food. They hoped to resume their conversation, but their words echoed loudly in the deep silence.

The sour-faced waitress soon returned with their eggs, then retreated to a long counter, decked with condiment holders and plastic menus. She parked herself on a high stool and flicked lazily through a magazine.

Jackson moved his chair closer to the table, so that he could speak with Lisa in a more casually confidential manner, which didn't just amount to conspiratorial whispering. His chair squeaked violently as he moved. They both grinned, but said nothing, tucking into their food instead.

Fortunately, a telephone behind the counter rang, and the sour-faced waitress was soon expounding in loud tones to her caller, that Stan's haemorrhoids were playing him up something terrible.

'Poor Stan,' Jackson said, wincing at her words. He gulped back his coffee, an amused twinkle in his eyes.

'I've had an idea,' Lisa said, leaning even closer to Jackson. The hot steam rising from her coffee pleasantly tickled her chin.

'Maybe we should kill two birds with one stone?' she said. 'I know this guy … a good guy, Kirk Novelli, who works for the Miami police department. He ... he knows a fair bit about you already. Maybe I should speak with him, tell all ... .'

A dark shadow scudded across Jackson's face and he instinctively pulled back.

'OK, not all. But enough. See if he can advise me. Make some preliminary inquiries. Because the last thing I want is to go to the police and then wind up without any protection. Not while Colm's still at large and can take me out.'

Jackson pondered this. 'You sure you trust this Novelli?'

'I think so.'

'He's the guy you wanted to play our little tape to, isn't he, when we were back in Miami?' Jackson added with a cheeky smile.

Lisa grinned smarmily in response.

'OK. So he's definitely _familiar _with this case,' Jackson leered.

Lisa sighed, a little exasperated, recalling her acute embarrassment when Jackson had switched the tapes, ensuring Novelli was treated to a burst of impromptu disco fever rather than a serious exposition of Jackson's attempt to kill Keefe.

She toyed with her food, all the while wondering if Novelli could help them in another way too. It seemed improbable, but then, maybe it was worth a try?

'And don't forget. There's also Keefe,' she said. 'Novelli could maybe contact him on our behalf. Act as a go-between.'

Jackson vehemently shook his head. 'You know Lise, I've been thinking about that. It's a stupid idea. All my instincts are telling me it's a no go.'

He was interrupted by the waitress, emitting a hail of shrill, grating laughter as she continued her telephone conversation.

'How can you say that? If we get Keefe on side, we potentially solve both problems. _You and me_,' Lisa retorted.

'No Lisa. By going to _Keefe_, you don't realize what you're asking _me_ to do,' Jackson said, in low, threatening tones. 'Let me just cut and run and be done with it. It's better that way.'

'But we need to tell Keefe about Colm. Inform him that he has a known assassin on his staff, before it's too late. And then we might also gain some leverage. Keefe's a powerful man. And he's a good guy. He'll value what we have to say.'

'Except it won't stop at Colm, Lisa,' Jackson said, his blue eyes blazing. 'If I am a genuine suspect for the De Bowen killing, which I'm pretty darned sure I am, then I'll have to give a lot, lot more than just tip Keefe off, to buy myself any kind of immunity here. Any kind of … normality. And frankly I've no desire to spend the rest of my days languishing on some fucking witness protection program, because that's where I'd wind up. Believe me.'

'Isn't that better than being on the run for the rest of your life?' Lisa asked, spitting out her words angrily.

Jackson scowled. 'In my business, making enemies and avoiding them is what you do. You just get on with it.'

Lisa could feel her eyes stinging with unshed tears. A hot flush stole across her cheeks.

She didn't want to cry in front of Jackson, so she muttered her excuses and headed for the restroom.

XXXXXXXXXX

She sat heavily on the toilet, knickers round her ankles, and sobbed uncontrollably.

Stupid bloody guy, she thought. Didn't he realize? Didn't he care?

She grabbed a long length of tissue and spooled it round her hand, dabbing at her wet cheeks, before blowing her nose.

How could she have been so foolish? She actually had _feelings_ for the cold-hearted prick.

She'd stupidly allowed herself to fall for him. Had hoped, deep down, that he felt the same way too. Enough even to come clean about his past, to change his way of life. To maybe stick around.

Sure, she didn't want him to settle into some kind of turgid domesticated obscurity, for her sake. Indeed, she could hardly imagine returning to her past life. The steadiness, the drudgery and predictability of it all.

But she had crossed the Rubicon when they left New York that day. She had wanted _him_. To be close to him. To love him, even.

Crazy as that seemed, in view of their particular history.

Something in him had touched her like no other. Like nothing else.

But clearly it wasn't mutual.

He seemed all too happy for them to go their separate ways.

For her to go to the police, return to her old life, her life before Jackson … even with the constant unresolved threat of Colm, casting a dark, ominous shadow over the rest of her days.

While he skidaddled off to wherever guys like him went running when the going got too tough to handle.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa had no idea how long she'd been sitting in the toilet cubicle, but she soon learned she had company.

There was a loud thwacking crunch as the door leading into the 'Ladies' was pushed hard against a wall, and the distinctive sound of heavy treaded shoes stomping restlessly on floor tiles, resounded throughout the restroom.

Lisa instantly froze, holding her breath.

It was probably Jackson. But in the absence of any reassurance, a greeting of some sort, she couldn't help but fear that Colm had finally caught up with them.

She was sure the sound of her heart galloping crazily inside of her was echoing loudly, alerting whoever it was loitering outside her cubicle, to her presence within.

This, of course, was why she didn't want to leave Jackson. Not just because … because she had feelings for him. But also because she was scared. Terrified, even. Terrified of being alone.

'Lisa,' Jackson said softly. 'Are you alright in there?'

The sound of his voice was her undoing. Lisa broke out again into a fierce rally of sobs.

'Let me in,' Jackson urged, thrusting his shoulder against the door.

She didn't answer, unable to stem the tears that insisted on flowing down her cheeks. She didn't want him to see her like this. Pathetic and frightened. Because if he did, he really _would_ see her as a liability.

'Lisa,' Jackson pleaded. 'I know you're in there.'

There was a long pause. So long Lisa almost wondered if he had tiptoed out of the restroom without her noticing.

And then the cubicle door exploded as Jackson shouldered it off its hinges with brutal force.

Lisa yelped, suddenly ashamed to be found with her knickers round her ankles, her tear-stained face red and puffy.

Jackson leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded nonchalantly, an affectionate smirk on his face.

'Don't just laugh at me, you bastard,' Lisa choked.

Jackson's smirk extended into a broad grin. He crouched down beside her, his eyes shining with amusement. He gently caressed her cheek, then brushed his fingers against her lips.

Lisa shuddered with pleasure at his touch. But any real pleasure was stymied by her painful awareness that she was still sitting, rather inelegantly, on a toilet.

'I'd … I'd better stand up,' she said hoarsely.

Jackson looped his arms around her and hauled her to her feet. She scrabbled to pull her knickers on.

He continued grinning, standing aside with exaggerated courtesy to let her pass him on her way to the sinks, where she washed her hands.

'You forgot to flush,' he said.

'I didn't go.'

She looked at her face in the mirror, and saw Jackson approaching her from behind. He embraced her, head bent, mouth muffled into her shoulder, his eyes gazing at hers in the mirror.

'You're right,' he mumbled. 'I should cut a deal somehow.'

Lisa blinked in surprise, keeping her eyes firmly locked on his.

'With the police?'

'Eventually,' he said. He tightened his hold on her, easing his chin onto her shoulder. 'But first with Keefe. Maybe get your police pal on board to mediate, because I'm going to need all the goddamned help I can get.'

'You do realize, our accusing Colm will only be truly credible if you explain what you actually _are_ … which means you're going to have to tell Keefe that you once tried to kill him,' Lisa said plainly.

'Oh yes,' he said, a baleful look in his eye. 'That's going to be the fun part.'

His eyes brightened. 'But … I'm hoping that the quality of information I can offer, in addition to ratting out Colm, might go a little way to mitigating his ire.'

'And you accept that we're probably talking witness protection,' Lisa said glumly.

'Yup,' he said, a pained expression on his face. 'But then I guess _a_ life is better than _no_ life. Which is how I'd wind up in the end.'

He swung her round to face him. His eyes staring intently into hers, his breath warm on her cheek.

'And … I can't expect _you_ to run _with_ me Lise. And I sure as hell don't want to run _from_ you,' he added, his voice husky with emotion. 'So what choice do I have?'

Lisa could feel tears returning to her eyes, to the point where her vision was starting to blur a little.

Jackson's mouth pressed against her. His lips were warm and soft. Comforting even.

She threw her arms around his neck and clutched him tightly.

She then burst into loud, pealing laughter. 'What is it with us and restrooms?' she asked.

'Well, we'd probably best get out of this one. The cowface waitress stared daggers at me when I came in here looking for you,' Jackson chuckled.

Lisa took a deep breath. 'Just … just one thing Jackson. Are you _absolutely_ sure you want to do this? Because I _can_ cope alone you know. You don't have to stay with me for the sake of it.'

A strange growling noise erupted from Jackson's throat, and he held her even tighter than before, so tight, she realized she'd have bruises on her arms and neck, imprinted by his fingers. He kissed her with a burning savagery, which clean took her breath away.

'I don't want you to cope alone,' he said, through gritted teeth. 'I'm fucking crazy about you Lise. I want to be with you. Look after you. How could you possibly think I'd want anything else?'


	17. Novelli

**Author's Note:**  
First up, profuse apologies for my prolonged absence. Still, I have a very good excuse - a lovely little baby girl who has been keeping me extremely busy (and very happy, when I'm not collapsing through lack of sleep!)

This is a bit of a 'link' chapter. Kind of a string of mood-setting vignettes rather than major plot action. I guess I'm having to gradually write myself back into fic-writing mode, seeing as my brain feels like it has gone to mush – so please bear with me. I know where this story is going and how it ends, and I promise to finish up. But chapters may be a little shorter than before as my concentration span and the time I can commit to writing are somewhat reduced at the moment.

I hope some of you have stayed with the story! Thanks for all the reviews to date – they are very much appreciated!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing &c.

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Novelli**

It all seemed so surreal.

Lisa could barely believe that in the short time since she had last seen Officer Kirk Novelli, she had been threatened repeatedly by psychopathic assassins, evaded capture and certain death by a man dead-set it seemed on murdering America's next president, been witness to a great deal of gruesome bloodletting and loss of life, and in spite of all of this, had likely fallen in love with the one man she had once feared above all others.

Novelli seemed similarly perturbed, though for markedly different reasons, and was more than a little wild-eyed and twitchy throughout his meeting over dinner with both Lisa and Jackson.

Luckily Novelli had been visiting his 'folks' in New York, so the drive to Cape Cod, where they had elected to meet, was really not too onerous a journey. They chose to dine at a traditional-style seafood restaurant, which to Novelli's immense satisfaction also served meatier fare.

After dispatching his steak and fries with what seemed to Lisa to be undue haste, Novelli spent the remainder of their meeting listening attentively, arms folded against his chest, lips tightly pursed, as Lisa, with the occasional interjection from Jackson, related the entire sequence of events from when she had left Miami, to here. To now.

Jackson toyed aimlessly with his food, his eyes occasionally flicking to Novelli, who in turn, eyed Jackson with unguarded suspicion throughout.

Novelli only interrupted Lisa the one time to signal to a waitress for a refill of his coffee. Once Lisa had finished speaking, he heaved a sigh, then proceeded to overload his drink with four brown sugar cubes. He disconsolately stirred his coffee, his teaspoon clinking loudly against the sides of his china cup.

Finally he spoke, puffing out his cheeks first and exhaling deeply.

'Boy oh boy. That's a lot of heavy shit you've got going on there.'

Lisa flushed a little. She frowned at Jackson, who was smirking.

'You see then why we could do with your help?' Lisa asked tentatively.

Novelli's twinkling brown-eyed gaze was a penetrating one. Lisa suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. Had she done the right thing to turn to this guy? After all. He was right. This _was _heavy shit. In so many ways. Why would he possibly want to get involved?

Novelli seemed to be lost in thought. 'You know, by rights I should be frog-marching your _friend_ here,' and he gestured to Jackson, 'down to the nearest police department ... if what you tell me is true?'

'Every fucking word,' Jackson said, a bitter snarl on his face. He didn't like the direction of the police officer's thinking one little jot. Lisa shot him a warning look, then smiled winningly at Novelli.

'Which means,' she said, emphatically, desperate to force the deal, 'Jackson can help you guys out.'

'Come on Novelli,' Jackson urged. 'With all the shit I know, you and your fellow officers will be thinking Christmas has come early.' He fixed Novelli with a smarmy grin. Novelli seemed to recoil a little.

'So you're saying you want some kind of protection in return,' Novelli said ponderously.

Jackson's face darkened. 'Not just some kind,' he sniffed. 'Very specific, very secure kinds of protection. And for Lisa too.'

Novelli's face twisted a little at this. He smiled, a strange, pitying smile.

'Oh Miss Reisert. How did you ever get yourself into this mess?' he said.

'Well I have,' she said bluntly. 'And I'm pleading with you, to help me get out of it.'

XXXXXXXXXXX

Outside, the dusky sky was inky-blue. The inn where they had dined was a short walk from a small harbor, where a cluster of boats bobbed uneasily in choppy waters, bumping and crashing, the occasional bell jangling in the violent breeze.

'Not a night for a romantic stroll,' Jackson said in dry, laconic tones. He pulled his jacket close around him, as a defence against the increasingly biting wind.

'Novelli said they're expecting a big storm in the next few days. Along the entire Eastern seaboard,' Lisa remarked. She huddled close to Jackson, unable to suppress a cold shiver which chilled through her.

They started walking, at a brisk pace, away from the inn, towards their parked Subaru. Lisa was a lot less confident using the Subaru now they were so close to Boston, but Jackson said it'd do for a few more days. Which, all being well, was all they needed.

XXXXXXXXXX

They were staying at a small, low-key motel with pretensions to prettiness which had faded to tawdry over the years. Jackson had paid in cash, and the broad-faced landlady with gappy front teeth and a hairdo resembling an overgrown marmalade cat recently stricken with mange, had asked no questions, expressing minimal curiosity as to why they had chosen to visit this particular neck of the woods, dressed in smart working suits, amidst such inclement weather conditions.

The room was sparsely furnished, dominated by a flimsily-constructed pinewood four-poster bed, adorned with a grayish-white frilly comforter, seemingly made of finest polyester, which cruelly chafed the skin, as Lisa and Jackson soon discovered. They had proceeded to 'christen' the room, as Lisa had rather euphemistically described their frantic lovemaking, within the first ten minutes of arrival, finding to their cost, an hour or so later, that their skin was pink and sore from friction burns.

Jackson suggested they spread De Bowen's ghastly fur cloak over the comforter instead. At least it made for a softer landing.

They needed to talk about Novelli. Their plans. Their concerns. But neither really wanted to, preferring to string out the next few hours without worries, without news.

XXXXXXXXX

Lisa realized the next day that it had probably been a mistake not to discuss upcoming events with Jackson at the motel. Not that she'd minded the alternative, although she felt as though every muscle in her body was aching. But conversation with Jackson was always somewhat stilted when they were driving she found. Particularly now, when Jackson's already heightened sense of vigilance was being stretched thin, Lisa thought, by their perilous circumstances.

And the strain was increasingly apparent on his face, which was more pallid than usual. The thin sprinkling of freckles dashed across his cheekbones, were starker than ever before.

Novelli had called this morning with good news it seemed. He had made a tactful approach to the Keefe campaign, speaking directly with the main man himself, once it was established his reason for contacting Keefe was a security issue. This preliminary inquiry had born fruit quicker than they could have hoped.

Clearly Keefe was pretty shook up by the death of Talbot Haynes, Lisa guessed, hence he had agreed to talks with Novelli as soon as possible. Preferably face to face.

Novelli had advised Lisa and Jackson to rapidly head South. Keefe was attending a three-day conference at some swanky country club hotel in Maryland – some place near Annapolis. Novelli was set to meet him there, and even sounded a little thrilled at the prospect. This was probably the greatest adventure of his life, Lisa thought wryly.

It was hoped that Novelli would quickly open lines of communication between Keefe and Lisa … with Jackson the prize … the bounty.

He was the one who really counted in all of this. And they all knew it.

Certainly Jackson had not expected such a swift result, and the tight lines around his mouth indicated to Lisa that he was not entirely happy with this arrangement either, viewing it as an unwelcome but necessary evil.

She, however, was desperate for something, anything, resembling security, protection, and was glad that Keefe had recognized her plight and had shifted into action so quickly.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Several hours later, Lisa was jolted awake as Jackson finally pulled the Subaru into a parking lot outside a motel close to the outskirts of Annapolis. She had been dozing on and off for a substantial part of their journey, and was now nursing a sore neck as she had lolled uncomfortably against the window for most of that time, bending her head at an awkward angle.

'Where are we?' she groaned, feeling a little hung-over from this sudden rude awakening. She tried to gather her thoughts, mindful of the sudden stabbing hunger pangs gnawing at her gut.

Jackson had already exited the Subaru, his holdall in hand, and was striding purposefully towards reception.

Lisa grimaced inwardly. She could see that Jackson was all business, which was all well and good, as long as his idea of getting down to things involved a slap-up meal, preferably at the adjoining Rib Shack which looked to be a mercifully short thirty second walk, door to door.

XXXXXXXXX

Luckily Jackson's plans _did _incorporate eating. Novelli called again, just as Lisa was scaling an impossibly large spare rib, dripping with a sticky brown goo which tasted like molten lollipops. Not that she was complaining, and was even amused at Jackson's peeved scowl as she smeared sauce on the cell phone Novelli had given them, for the sole purpose of quick, easy and, most crucially, secure communications.

'Can you get to an Internet connection?' Novelli asked. There was a vague tremor to his voice which alarmed her.

'Internet?' Lisa asked. Jackson nodded. 'Sure. I think so,' she said.

'You … you might wanna snatch a peek at what the Miami media's been saying about you,' Novelli said in grim tones.

'About_me_?' Lisa screeched. _Oh shit. Oh shit._

'Yeah. Looks like the papers have caught wind of how you've gone missing – and they're making the connection to your artist buddy's murder too.'

'Charley?'

But of course. Charley enjoyed a certain minor celebrity, in and around Miami. Her recent successes in the art world hadn't gone unnoticed. It was only natural that her murder had been covered by the local news.

Lisa was worried that these news events might spark renewed interest in the attempted assassination of Keefe at her hotel. That was not the kind of coverage she wanted right now when she was set to beg for Keefe's help, both for herself and the guy who'd tried to kill him.

Jackson was clearly listening attentively to this conversation, and his face was rapidly darkening.

'Your friend was quite the character from what I gather. Darned shame,' Novelli said. 'If you're right about this Buchanan guy having whacked her, then I'm only too glad to try and nail him.'

Lisa raised an eyebrow in surprise. _If _she was right? Did this mean Novelli didn't, as yet, wholly believe them?

An unsettling trickle of queasy fear iced her insides. Something didn't feel right.

But it was too late to change course. Novelli had set the wheels in motion. They were all but uncovered and ready, it seemed, to meet with Keefe tomorrow.

Novelli told them to wait for his call before visiting Keefe themselves at Drummonds Country Club.

XXXXXXXXXX

'Hey Lise, come on. Fretting about this business isn't going to change anything,' Jackson said. He slipped a protective arm around her shoulders and held her close, although Lisa was perfectly aware that his main aim was to coax her off the bed, to shut down his portable, and to get the hell out of the motel room so that she didn't spend any more time trawling the Internet for news and speculation on her own whereabouts.

'I can't believe what they're saying about me,' she said, gulping back a sob which had been half-choking her these last few hours – ever since she had been online.

'I mean … my own therapist. Miriam. She makes me sound like some kind of crazy. Says I was obsessed with the Keefe case. With _you_. That I had become paranoid and neurotic,' she sniffed, nestling herself into the crook of Jackson's arm.

However, the small, mocking smirk which lit up Jackson's face soon banished any vulnerability she might be feeling, as a burst of irritation dashed through her instead.

'You find this funny do you?' she shrieked. 'Have you thought what my poor Dad must be going through?'

Jackson instantly sobered, although his eyes were glowing with furtive merriment and a strangely seductive warmth.

'You_were_ kind of hung up on the case Lisa,' he said. And then his smile was back. Broader than ever. Irrepressible. 'On _me_,' he added proudly. 'I mean, let's face it. Not only did you need_therapy_, but you even resorted to full-on stalking.'

Lisa pouted. 'How can you be so flippant at a time like this?' she groused. 'You're a fucking egomaniac, do you know that?'

Jackson grinned. 'Sure. Which is why it really turns me on to be reminded just how much you fucking dig me. How much I _affected_ you.'

He pulled her even closer, lip curled mischievously, twisting her around so that she was straddling his lap. He fell backwards onto the bed, pulling her across him.

'I _hated_ you,' Lisa hissed, although her eyes were shining with sudden excitement. 'So don't go getting any big ideas.'

He pushed her skirt upwards, over her thighs, so that it was pooling around her waist, and smoothly stroked her exposed skin.

His clear blue eyes caught her in an intense mutual gaze.

'I thought you wanted to get out of here as soon as possible,' she breathed.

'I've changed my mind,' he said hoarsely, fisting his hands into her hair and pulling her face closer to his own.

XXXXXXXXXX

Lisa tentatively unraveled herself from Jackson, both still struggling for breath. They hastily rearranged their clothes. Lisa flopped into the passenger seat beside Jackson, while he pulled his seat forwards so that he was restored to a normal driving position.

Lisa pulled the hair from her face where it was clinging uncomfortably to her damp forehead. She relaxed into her seat, and closed her eyes, listening in rapture to the soaring vocals from 'Rigoletto' which Jackson had discovered that morning, stuffed into an outer pocket of his holdall. Lisa remembered how they had grabbed the CD box-set from his apartment.

It felt an age away, although in reality it was merely a matter of days.

She was suddenly acutely aware that they were being watched.

A fond smile stole across her features.

'We've got company,' she gasped.

Jackson immediately peered through her window, splattered with a fine, steady drizzle, only to find himself staring at a shaggy, brown pony, which was eyeing them curiously. The pony was standing just a few feet from them, nuzzling a grassy bank which bordered a wide tract of sandy beach. A further straggle of wild ponies were ranged across the bank, too preoccupied by feeding to pay much heed to the parked Subaru, facing the ocean.

'They seem harmless enough,' Jackson murmured.

Lisa sighed. 'This is a lovely spot.'

She gazed out at the sea, which was raging itself into a frenzied froth, lapping the shore in an ever more threatening manner. Yet somehow she felt perfectly safe. This same stormy sea, wild and brewing, had kept them company for so many miles. The Greek chorus to their unfolding narrative.

Her eyes trailed the length of the beach; pale graying sand, littered with driftwood and grim black boulders, until they alighted on a small whiteboard house, crouching against a rocky outcrop.

'That'd be a fun place to live,' she said, gesturing towards the house.

'Kind of lonely, don't you think?' Jackson scoffed. 'And probably not around for too much longer either. Haven't you heard of coastal erosion?'

'Spoilsport.'

'No. Just a realist.'

'So … what's your ideal spot then?' Lisa asked hesitantly. She held her breath. What if his dreams were so outlandish, so very different from her own?

Jackson chewed his lip thoughtfully. He slanted his eyes sideward, studying her carefully.

'This is nice,' he said, with a casual shrug.

'I thought it was too lonely? Too exposed?'

'I meant next to _you_,' Jackson said with a suave grin. He ducked his head towards her, glancing a kiss across her cheek.

'Smooth,' Lisa joked, although she thrilled inwardly. 'But I'm serious Jackson. If … if you're quitting your _current_ business, what do you plan to do? Where do you want to be?'

'I'm open to suggestion.' He pondered a moment, watching the swirling white-tipped waves crest and fall with a pensive expression on his face. 'What do you want?'

_You_, Lisa thought. But thought better of flattering him unduly.

'I wouldn't mind a bit of traveling,' she said.

'Could be awkward.'

'I know. But there's all those art galleries you have to take me to.'

'Of course,' Jackson said, beaming. 'Now _that_'s something I could do.'

'What's that then?'

'I could become an art critic,' he said. 'Sitting around, pontificating all day. Sounds like fun. And I'm ideally qualified. Truly committed.'

'How so?'

'Well. I genuinely_ do _believe that art, in all its forms, is more important than real life.'

'Oh. Really?' Lisa arched a skeptical eyebrow, glad to see that he was smiling. 'That's kind of insane.'

'Not at all,' he said. 'Just think of all the super-famous imaginary characters there are, and how much they mean to so many people.'

'OK. But just because someone loves, say, Heathcliff in _Wuthering Heights_, doesn't mean he's going to impinge on their everyday life. He's made up. A fiction. You can't meet him for real,' Lisa argued.

'Sure. But in that case, he isn't any less real, than some famous living person you see on the TV but are never likely to meet either, or the billions of flesh and blood people who share this planet who you'll never even hear of,' Jackson retorted. 'And you know what Lisa? I bet there's plenty of characters from books and films, from your favorite TV shows, who you probably know better than your own goddamned neighbors. And who you care about, a whole lot more too. Come on. Admit it.'

Lisa was stumped. Not because she agreed of course. How could she? His argument was ludicrous. But she couldn't frame a worthy response, and was relieved when he flipped back to his earlier point.

'Or … maybe I could be an art dealer?' he mused. 'That'd entail a fair bit of travelling. And maybe a _bijou_ little gallery in some pleasant seaside town. How'd you like that?'

Lisa wasn't sure he was being serious. Something about he way he'd said _bijou_, with a vaguely derogatory sneer.

She'd never really know where she stood with him, she thought mournfully.

They lapsed into silence, both listening to the soaring dramatics of the soprano warbling through the car's speakers.

'Anyway. It all means jack shit if we don't get through this Keefe business,' Jackson said in a harsh, tight voice.

Lisa flashed him a reassuring smile. She didn't want to give him the remotest hint of her own growing misgivings on this matter. Keefe was their best, their _only_ way out of this jam.

'OK. So there might be a little bit of embarrassment to start with,' she said.

Jackson spluttered angrily. 'A little bit! You gotta be kidding me. I tried to fucking kill the guy, remember?'

'Well. You failed.'

'Only thanks to you.'

As if reminded, Jackson rooted in his jacket pocket for Novelli's cell phone, checking for a signal, for what Lisa surmised was the hundredth time that day.

All this waiting was beginning to fray their nerves.

'And don't forget Lisa,' Jackson said, once he was satisfied that they were still contactable. 'The mere fact I was hired might raise a few awkward questions that I don't know the answer to.'

Lisa looked puzzled. 'It's kind of obvious Jackson. Like you said. Someone wanted to send a big, brash message and Keefe was playing hardball with the bad guys. Wanting to take on the terrorists. Face them down. And his murder would have been hugely destabilizing. It's not rocket science, you know.'

Jackson shook his head. 'No Lise. I've told you before. It takes a long time to plan these things. The hit on Keefe must have been in the works long before he ascended to the Department of Homeland Security. But it wasn't my gig, so I don't know how or why the plan got off the ground in the first place.'

'So … might it have been someone else? Some other interest group who wanted to _fix _things, and you were simply guns for hire?'

Jackson shrugged. 'Perhaps. Keefe once pissed off the gun lobby if I remember correctly, some years back. Wanted to pursue anti-gun laws.'

'Well, he's sure changed his tune on _that_ one,' Lisa exclaimed in genuine surprise. Keefe was seen as fair and honest – but was far from liberal in his political leanings.

'Maybe there's something we don't know,' she said softly.

'Heck Lisa. There's a _lot_ we don't know,' Jackson countered. 'I've more questions than answers, that's for sure.'

Their conversation was brought to a sudden halt by the shrill ringing of Novelli's cell phone.

Jackson cut the volume from the CD player. The sounds of the churning sea and the steady drumming beat of rain on their windshield, served as a backdrop to the cell phone's insistent chime.

He grabbed the phone, studying the caller display screen.

'It's him. It's Novelli.' He stared at Lisa, his eyes burning into her. 'They must be ready for us.'

OK,' she whispered.

'You … you still want to go through with this?' Jackson asked.

'Do you?'

The phone continued to ring. Incessant. Distracting.

Jackson looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he broke eye contact, his eyes flicking to the phone in irritation. He frowned deeply, jabbing his finger at the _receive_ button, before pressing the phone to his ear.

'Novelli,' he said in a tone of weary resignation. '… Sure. We're all set at this end.'

He smiled wanly at Lisa and then looked away from her, out of his side-window, across the sands, to the little beach-house, which was being subjected to an increasingly furious assault from a barrage of steep, crashing waves.


End file.
